


Kidnapped part 2

by Baileys



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, Drama, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-11-25 21:03:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20918576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baileys/pseuds/Baileys
Summary: Continuing the story.... Neal's frustrated, Peter still being cautious.   How to they move on from here?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2 of Kidnapped, all chapters complete. Thanks for reading!

_As he turns the handle on the unlocked door of the unassuming house, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach telling something isn't right, Neal finds himself hoping it'll be Alan he's meeting on the other side. So, when his head hits the wall, a result of trying to fight off the owner of an arm that had wrapped around his throat the second he stepped inside, Neal regrets ignoring that gut instinct._

_As he drops in a boneless heap to the floor, his last thoughts are of Peter and how disappointed he's going to be when he finds out he's screwed up yet again._

…

When Neal wakes up, he finds his situation less than ideal. Hands tied behind his back, wooden chair keeping him upright, the pounding in his head signals the _meeting_ had not gone exactly as planned.

"Well hello, _Lance_ is it?"

Blinking heavy lids, Neal's vision clears enough to take in the presence of the burly man sitting on the opposite side of a large ornate desk.

"That's right." A sly glance around tells him they're alone. "Nice welcoming committee you have." He smiles like he wakes up tied to chairs every day.

The man, who looks shorter in stature but twice as wide, lets loose a deep guffaw. The kind of sound only achieved after a lifetime of daily bourdon and cigars. "You are very amusing. Alan was right to recommend you."

"Where is Alan?" Neal asks coolly, "I'd like to thank him."

The man turns serious, a decisive frown replacing all humour. "Maybe you'll get the chance soon," he stands, trailing his fingers over the green felt top as he strolls around to Neal's side of the desk. "We have a job for you _Lance_, it's very important and I wouldn't normally entrust this to someone new, but… you're exactly what we're looking for."

The eerie similarity to words Ruiz had used when requesting him raises hairs on the back of Neal's neck. As does the way his mystery captor keeps saying 'Lance' like he knows it isn't his name.

"I've been told that before," he interjects with honesty. "So, what's the job?"

His blinding smile is interrupted the second the man's fingers abandon the desk and start trailing _him_. First along his arm up to his shoulders, then the ice-cold digits reach his neck, squeezing in a way that makes him flinch with pain. Neal instinctually tries to move out of his grasp, pulling forward as far as his binds allow.

The man laughs, deep and disturbing and far too amused for Neal's liking. "You'll do absolutely fine, kid." He sits back behind the desk like nothing happened, smile a mile wide as he reaches into a draw. "But you do need to relax." Pulling out a cigar, eyes making contact with someone behind him, across the room he calls out, "Get our guest a drink."

Absolutely terrified and fighting not to show it, Neal takes deep measured breaths. Though, throughout this exchange he's been able to ascertain one good thing. His restraints are merely rope. Chafing his skin as he wiggles his wrists, it hurts like a bitch but they're in no way a match for him and luckily, though they obviously suspect Lance is an alias, it seems they have no idea his real name is Neal Caffrey, because anyone who did know him would never be so careless.

Keeping his plan under-wraps Neal watches patiently while another man, this one taller, thinner and subservient looking, enters the room with a tray holding a tall glass of what he's certain is meant to look like water. He eyes the pair carefully, though he may not be able to read lips as efficiently as Peter or Mozzie, Neal doesn't need to know the words to read their expressions. Whatever is in that glass, it isn't anything good.

"Drink." The man in charge commands as the other places the glass on the desk before him.

"Well, I would but I'm at a disadvantage." Neal shrugs his still restrained arms and throws another wide grin into the mix, one that contrasts starkly with his fear filled bright eyes.

He's under no illusion as to what he's just invited. As predicted the thin guy picks up the glass, following the fat guys silent instruction and makes to force the liquid down his throat. It's when the glass is inches from his lips, his server leaning over in a less defensible position that Neal makes his move. One final tug and the thin rope snaps, cutting his wrists slightly but not so he notices the pain right away. A hefty shove and the thin guy with the glass falls backward, hitting his head on the table. The contents of the glass soaks the wooden floor, burning tiny holes everywhere it splashes. Neal doesn't think from that point forward, _he runs_.

Out the open door and down the stairs that present themselves like a gift, he pounds his way into the wide-open entrance hallway and toward the solid wooden front door. He gets his nimble fingers around the doors handle, seconds away from freedom, when multiple hands grab him, pulling him back. Neal's swept off his feet with ease and dragged into the nearest room, which, during his struggle to grab purchase onto anything that may prevent what's coming, he notices has an excellent view of the park.

"Get him under control, for fuck's sake." The stout man's angry voice booms down the stairs.

"Whoa, look at this!"

Lying flat on his back, a foot pressed central to his chest keeping him down, Neal feels his right leg lifted high into the air. Trouser cuff rolled up.

"What the fuck is that?"

He closes eyes, swallowing down the sense of impending doom. They found his tracker.

"Cut it, get it off him!"

_Yes. Cut it you idiots! Then have all hell rain down on you. _Neal prays they do it quick, and that Peter is still on the receiving end of any alerts. He wouldn't put it passed Ruiz to have circumvented the Marshalls to ensure he had absolute control over his fate.

"Wait!" A voice outside of the three holding him down calls silence to the room. "I know what that is."

_Shit._ All hope of them being incompetent henchmen flies out the window. If they know what the tracker does then he's screwed, because Peter isn't watching him this week. Peter's been locked out by the powers that be for fear of interference – the Rice case having been cited as a prime example. Only Ruiz has access to his current whereabouts so long as it remains active. Which means attached to his leg.

While his internal thoughts spin in full panic mode, conversation moves on around him. A discussion he wishes he'd listened to when twin hands start dragging him again, placing him in an upright position against the filthiest couch Neal's ever seen. He's very woozy, no doubt the effect of the first blow he received, coupled with the additional whack to the head he took when he was pulled backwards from the door, not to mention the numerous kicks and punches received since, under the guise of 'calming him down'.

Just as he's regaining some equilibrium a pill is thrust in his face. "This was going to be for later, but I think I'm going to have more fun hearing you scream."

That's as much warning as he gets, within seconds hands are on him again holding him down. The smooth talker with the oily voice, the one whose face he never sees clearly, palms his jaw and slips the pill between his lips. Neal fights, he really does, but he's out numbered, panicked and in a situation way over his head. One meaty fist clamps over his nose and mouth and it isn't long before he swallows. The pill's chased with liquid that he's certain isn't water. It burns his throat going down, but just enough to feel discomfort, nothing more. Seconds, maybe minutes pass he's not sure, everything is dipping in and out of focus. The hands restraining him eventually let go but Neal stays sitting on the threadbare rug, staring at a settee that's a twin of the one he's been propped up against. The light fades, comes back again, then fades some more. Try as he might the fight to keep his eyelids open is lost. Slumping to the side, the warm mid-morning sun shining through the bay window and ghosting over his hair, Neal thinks of Peter. Of all the times he's found him and that he really wouldn't mind making it 3-0.


	2. Chapter 2

"Three weeks."

The abrupt and unwelcomed interruption in an otherwise quiet Monday morning has Peter dropping his head into his hands. He can't have this conversation - not again_._

"It's been three weeks Peter." Neal tells him undeterred. Jaw clenched, he steps purposefully through the open office door and stares Peter down. "I'm not spending one more day chained to my desk. And you can't make me."

Sliding tiredly back in his chair, Peter's hands drop to rest flat on his desk. "_You,_"he barks, gaining attention from down in the bullpen, "will do as_ I say_. This isn't a democracy Neal. I'm the handler, remember?"

Neal says nothing, just stands ridged, piercing gaze fixed on him, refusing to back down.

Fine. Two can play at that game.

When their staring contest reaches the thirty second mark the pressure cooker which is quintessentially Caffrey in full blown snit boils over. Losing all measure of control and decorum Neal dissolves into what Peter will later describe to El as a teenage worthy tantrum.

"_Come on_ Peter," Neal stamps, _stamps_ his foot, creating the perfect picture of insolence and unrestrained youth as he dances out his frustration in the doorway. "I'm going crazy stuck here looking at stupid mortgage fraud!"

Peter smiles smugly and returns his focus to the pile of weekend reports laid out before him. "Agent Blake doesn't seem to mind." He hums, picking up a pen, declining to feed the juvenile behaviour any further.

"_Agent Blake_ is new and will do anything you tell him." Neal snaps back, dragging his feet sulkily across the floor and dropping bonelessly into the chair opposite, giving the desk leg a soft kick for good measure. "Least he can go out and get a decent cup of coffee whenever he wants. I can't even go to the bathroom without someone holding my hand."

Peter falters, doesn't restrain from the instinctive eye-roll, but manages to resist looking up. "That's a bit of an exaggeration, don't you think?"

Neal's outrage burns with intensity, noticeable through his words. "No, actually, _I _don't. Do you know what Diana did last week?"

"No," Peter gives in with a frustrated sigh and sits back, meeting his gaze. "What did Diana do last week?"

"You told her to watch me, while you went to investigate the break in at the Rubin Gallery with Jones, _remember_?" His being passed over for the case is going to be a sticking point between them for a while, so Peter doesn't comment, "and while you were gone, she put me in time out!"

Peter clamps down on his desire to laugh, fighting hard against the eyebrow that wants to jump into his hairline. "She put you-"

"In time out." Neal repeats, tone unwavering.

Lips quivering, a snort manages to escape. "Why exactly?"

"Does it matter?"

"Does if you want me to do anything about it." Peter throws back, willingly engaging in another staring contest, daring Neal to break first.

Which he does within seconds.

"_Fine_." Neal groans and slumps back in his chair, turning slightly to face the side wall, avoiding eye contact altogether. "I'll stay at my desk and work the Mortenson real estate scandal." He rumbles sullenly, adding a little louder, and with much more bite, "_happy_?"

"Happy would be stretching it." Peter says smoothly, trying like hell to keep the amusement off his face. "I'm certainly less mad."

Shaking his head Neal stands and leaves in a huff. Peter pretends to go back to reading the reports, but his eyes don't stray from the ridged figure all but jogging down the mezzanine stairs. Despite successfully winning yet another round, with the increasingly challenging behaviour that's built up over the past three weeks Peter can't ignore that tingling sensation in his stomach, the one telling him this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

…

Leaving Peter's office defeated beyond measure, Neal canters down the stairs infusing his usual grace into every step. Keeping his head held high, he feels the importance of putting up a front like a second skin. Nothing is wrong and he's getting everything he wants, everything _he deserves_, because he is Neal Caffrey and there is nothing he has to want for.

Throwing himself into his chair, Neal hitches both feet up on the corner of his desk and gives Peter, who he knows is still watching and pretending not to, a face splitting grin. Several Agents pass him by, rubbing their freedom to come and go as they please in his face. Neal politely nods at every single one of them without losing his line of sight, not one has the slightest inkling of the annoyance simmering beneath his surface and that's exactly how he likes it. Eventually activity in the office settles down, and after another full minute of doing nothing _but_ glaring into the upper-level offices, Neal feels a sense of boredom creep up on him.

The reality is no one gives a damn whether he's chained to a desk or not, so long as Special Agent Peter Burke is happy, they're happy. What happens to him is none of their concern. And special Agent Burke is currently so focused on whatever he's brought up on his computer screen that Neal's frustrations are probably furthest from his mind. So, bored with torturing Peter, convincing himself he's made his point anyway, Neal decides to focus on work. Dropping his feet back to the floor, a smooth move that looks almost natural under the circumstances, he pulls a fresh cold-case file towards him and delves in as if it were a novel written purely for his own entertainment.

"This sucks," he announces when nothing he reads makes it into his brain.

Five pages deep and he concludes its Peter's blatant distrust in his abilities which hurts the most, the humiliation factor being a close second. Unable to have even a moment of privacy thanks to Peter's hypervigilance is ruining the reputation he's worked so hard to maintain. Instead of being seen as the ingenious and talented criminal who successfully evaded the FBI for four years, the White Collar team are one move away from patting him on the head and offering to cut up his lunch for him.

Muttering _stupid Peter, stupid mortgage fraud_, under his breath, Neal slams the file shut and skims it over the edge of his desk. Watching it fall into the bin gives him a seconds' unfettered pleasure before he remembers why he sent it flying in the first place. The extortion case he went undercover for has all but closed to violent crimes, arrests have been made, Benedict's earning Agent Ruiz a great deal of praise from Washington. The sticking point with Peter is that nobody's confessed to his kidnapping, or the murders of Alan DuPont and the four other young men to whom he holds a startling resemblance. Officially their murders have been transferred to another division within the FBI, a group of Agents who specialise in that sort of thing, but unless there's evidence to suggest someone's in immediate danger, Neal knows the files and evidence will be put into storage, labelled cold and those boys will be forgotten like so many others.

He feels a brief pang of remorse. He didn't really get to know the kid who introduced himself as Alan, but there's something tragic about the idea it's only the difference of having a Peter Burke in his life that he and Alan aren't lying side by side in the morgue right now. The image of having neighbouring slabs with matching body bags conjures up feelings Neal isn't comfortable with and he quickly decides there's no time for rumination on 'what ifs' and 'could have beens'. Bottom line is, he isn't in the morgue. He's here, he's alive and wasting his time on mortgage fraud when there's real White Collar criminals to catch. With Benedict and his associates in jail, and thankfully no more of his doppelgangers being pulled out of the East River, Neal feels its high time things got back to normal.

Diana agrees. Jones agrees. Even Hughes agrees.

Peter does not agree.

Peter is still keeping him a virtual prisoner during the day, an actual one at night. When at work, despite their return to active cases two weeks ago, Peter has somehow manged to consistently pick just enough of a boring crime that's not only time consuming, but keeps him at his desk most of the day. Last week, when he chose Jones to join him on the gallery robbery over him that was the last straw, marking the start of his plotting to get Peter to ease up on the reins a bit. So far, it's been a major fail. He's tried appealing to Hughes, working the angle that the FBI bosses surely couldn't be happy that their best asset is being so underutilised, but that fell flat. The man proving to be infuriatingly stubborn and a loyal supporter of Peter. It briefly crossed his mind to call Bancroft, but Neal nixed that idea immediately, mainly since his recent circumventing of Peter and Hughes like that ended up with him concussed, drugged and more than a little traumatised by the whole ordeal.

Mozzie had been visiting him regularly at the Burke's home and might have been able to help, but recently decided to flee to locations unknown on unknown business, claiming prolonged exposure to suits has damaged his disposition. Before leaving he made it very clear, despite his aversion to anything related to _the man_, he fully supported Peter's efforts to keep him safe and requested that he does as he's told for a change. Unfortunately, he fared no better when approaching June with his Peter shaped dilemma. And Alex is still refusing to respond to his calls. In all it's like some weird back to front universe, his usual avenues of felonious support suddenly on the side of the law, whereas the law - other than Peter of course - is suddenly siding with him.

Heart-warming sentiments aside, because he is Neal Caffrey and he cannot be wrong, Neal listens to his own inner voice telling him the danger is nil, and not the united chorus of those that care about him. He wants to get out, needs to get out even if just for a short while. The anklet will show where he's gone so it's not as if no one will know where to find him, not like he's risking his deal or anything important. It's just Peter being overprotective as usual, no one else will give a damn.

Bolstered by his own arrogance, the second Peter leaves the floor heading only he knows where to do who knows what, as has been the norm recently, Neal sees his opening and slips out too. Hopefully everyone will think they've gone somewhere together and as long as he's quick no one will need to question it. Making his way in the elevator, watching the numbers slowly count down the floors he can already feel the nervous excitement stirring in his belly, can imagine the feeling of the sun on his face and the warmth of the air around him as he glides along the busy midday sidewalk. The city enticing him with its plethora of riches all ripe for the taking.

The sensation's so intense, when reality meets his expectations Neal doesn't see the trouble he's invited until it's too late. In the end he's left with no recourse but to ride the storm and piece back together his fragile self, because there is no way in hell he'll ever admit to it, even now, that Peter was right all along.

…

"Caffrey!" Jones shouts from across the street, having pulled up at the busy crime scene.

He flashes his FBI badge at the NYPD street cop standing behind the yellow tape and charges through. Spying Neal sitting at the back of an ambulance, as he gets closer Jones can see the bloody cloth clutched in the younger man's right hand and held to his forehead.

"It's only superficial, but you need to get it stitched. Do you have anyone who can take you to the ER?" The female medic with him asks.

Neal's eyes catch his approach and he stays quiet, allowing him to answer. "He's with me."

"You got him?" She nods, giving his badge a cursory once over before quickly moving off to treat her next patient.

"You okay Neal?" Jones takes her place, leaning over to inspect the damage for himself.

Neal maintains the hold he has to his forehead, the bleeding's clearly stopped, but there's a hell of a lot of it.

"Yeah, yeah I'm good." He slowly stands and starts walking away.

Following, Jones points in the direction of the car, guiding Neal with a hand to the small of his back. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know, I was just following up a cold case like Peter told me to." He takes a hesitant breath, "the car came out of nowhere, straight through the lights."

Jones takes in the destruction of the few cars standing stationary around them, a messy scene with multiple injuries, witnesses and damages. Not at all the kind of hit like he'd expect from a major criminal enterprise such as Benedict's.

"Were you hit?"

Neal shakes his head. "Saw it coming, jumped out of the way. Hit my head on the sidewalk when I fell." He chuckles. "I've just got over my last head injury. Really didn't need another."

"You have a hard head, I think you're good."

Reaching the bureau issue Taurus Neal climbs in the passenger seat with practiced ease. "Peter mad?"

Jones copies the move, sliding behind the wheel and buckles his seat belt. "He doesn't know yet." At Neal's questioning glance he explains. "Captain Shaddock called Peter direct to give him a heads up, but he was still in a meeting with Hughes. I took the call."

"He's going to freak out." Caffrey says slowly, following a moment's deep contemplation.

"Most likely."

"Any chance we can keep this between you and me? You know how he's been lately."

"Caffrey," He starts in a tone of recrimination, despite how tempting that idea is.

"Surely Peter not having extra stress right now would be better."

"I'm not lying to Peter. Don't bother." Jones tells him straight. "And besides, you know it's pointless, he'll find out eventually. You'll get in trouble like usual, only this time you'd be dragging me down with you."

They complete the drive to the nearest clinic in relative silence, insisting Neal gets stitches like instructed. His FBI creds get them seen pretty quickly, aided by Neal's bright smile, and they're back at White Collar a little over ninety minutes later. In all Caffrey had kept up his usual happy go lucky attitude, making cracks about Peter's over bearing nature and trying to convince him to keep his secret along the way, but the second they reach the 21st floor, finding Peter waiting by the elevator doors, Jones has to push Caffrey forward, because in the face of their boss's clear displeasure, his companion had suddenly lost his nerve.

"Thanks for fetching him Jones." Peter nods, taking Neal by the arm and guiding him into the office.

Clinton knows a dismissal when he hears one, and gladly leaves Neal in Peter's care. Caffrey gives him an accusing look that slides right off as he breaks away from the pair, taking up a defensive position behind his own desk. He sees Neal attempt a similar move, but he makes it no more than a step before Burke's hand clamps down hard and Caffrey's pulled in the opposite direction, to stand between the file bookcases. Since it's lunch time the office is mostly deserted so he can clearly hear the terse conversation going on mere feet away.

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't go out into the field without direct supervision." Peter speaks first.

"It wasn't the field. It was coffee. And I told you Peter, it's been three weeks!"

"Three weeks of being safe."

"This is nothing." Neal shakes his head, and judging by the immediate wince, instantly regrets it.

"Doesn't look like nothing." Peter taps him just above the plaster covering the dissoluble stitches under his hairline.

Neal shrugs, "I'm fine. They said I won't even have a scar." He sounds confident but there's a definite quiver to his voice.

This isn't the Caffrey Jones picked up and argued with all the way to and from the clinic. Since being faced with Peter he's gone from confidently cocky to utterly chastised, and it isn't long before Peter emerges from between the racks, Neal trailing behind him, eyes cast to the floor, looking for all the world like a puppy waiting to be whipped.

"Grab your things." Burke points at the fedora adorning the Socrates bust as he marches towards the main doors. "You're done here for the day."

…

Hesitantly complying with Peter's instruction Neal collects his hat and giving the office one last sweep to confirm witnesses, follows Peter out the door. He manages to keep quiet in the elevator, walk to the car and most of the ride across town, right up to until the moment they pull up outside what looks like an abandoned building in the warehouse district. He starts to ask what they are doing there when he spots the van out the corner of his eye.

Dread consumes him. "Peter, you wouldn't?"

Peter of course, says nothing, and slips out of the car, quickly walking around to open Neal's door when he doesn't immediately get out.

"Neal." He utters the one-word command, pointing at the sidewalk.

"You said I was done for the day." Neal looks up, but stays sitting, making no move to get out.

"I said you were done _here_, meaning the office_._" Peter leans in and drags him out without qualm. "I've got work to do and there's no one spare at the office to babysit," hand firmly wrapped around Neal's elbow, he marches them across the street, "so I'm taking you to someone who can."

"But I hate the van." Neal whines and tries to free himself, but only puts in a token effort.

"Should have thought about that before you disobeyed me." Peter sings as if he predicted this would happen and is enjoying getting to put this back up plan into action.

"But Peter-"

Neal is abruptly cut off when Peter's hold tightens and he's yanked back, forcing them to an abrupt halt. "No _but Peters_," he hisses, using his extra couple of inches height to full effect, "no excuses, you've used your last lifeline. You will sit in the van and Diana will watch you. No coffees, no stretching legs, no unescorted bathroom breaks. You will do as she tells you or face the consequences. Got it?"

"Consequences?" Neal swallows with dread, not liking the spark of glee in Peter's eyes.

"I'm not ruling out anything at this point Neal, I swear," Peter tugs him an inch closer, practically whispering in his ear. "Do not push me."

Terrifying images of what consequences mean to a man like Peter Burke invade his mind, making him cringe. "Not pushing."

Resuming their path down the street, a subdued Neal keeps his mouth shut and tries to rationalise with himself that it could be a lot worse. That is until the smell of stale coffee and donuts hits him the second the van doors open. He attempts to turn and walk back out again, but Peter's iron grip propels him inside.

"Did you get lost?" Diana asks without turning around.

Peter stares at him, making Neal feel incredibly uncomfortable. "Had a little something to deal with."

Neal has the good sense not to comment and quickly slips into the nearest seat. Peter however isn't satisfied with that.

"Oh no you don't. Move." he drags him up and pushes him further along, down onto the chair in front of Diana. "I want you where she can see you and you don't have clear access to the door."

Neal's face flushes but he doesn't fight. Avoiding looking at either Agent he keeps his gaze down on his lap, jumping when the plain notepad and boxes of brand-new Faber-Castell pastel crayons are dropped on the desk in front of him.

Neal dares to look up, wide eyes demanding answers.

"To keep you occupied." Peter responds. To Diana he says, "I'll be by at 6 to pick him up."

The door slams with a loud bang. Staring at it forlornly Neal hears the snigger at his side.

"It's not funny." He says sullenly, completely humiliated once again.

"Oh," Diana breathes in-between chuckles. "It so is."


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the door slamming shut, Peter's closing word on the matter, is still echoing over and over in Neal's head minutes later. He's left staring at the twin packs of pencils in his lap. A bitter-sweet symbol of the finality of his precarious situation.

"Alright Caffrey, spill," Diana demands, breaking the heavy silence and spinning her chair to face him. "What did you do to tip the boss over the edge this time?"

Shaking off the dejected feeling of abandonment, Neal props his feet up and tips his own chair back to stare up at the ceiling. "Absolutely nothing."

He resolutely doesn't look at her, knowing the expression of disbelief sure to be spoiling her face. Despite his outward display of bravado, Neal can't deny the hint of underlying anxiety scratching its way to the surface. Normally he's better than this, normally Peter taking time-out from him wouldn't cause such a visceral reaction, and he certainly wouldn't need to think twice about playing minds games with Diana. She knows better than to take anything he says at face value, hence her many and repeated threats to dismember him. But today he's not in the mood to play, only he didn't know he wasn't in the mood until she'd asked the question and he found himself unable to come up a retort better than complete denial.

Panicking not being his style, Neal pushes back the part of him that feels hurt by Peter's dismissive handling and channels one of his other identities to cover for him.

Turning in Diana's direction, it's Nick Haldon who offers her a tight-lipped grin. "Come on, Diana," his eyes twinkle, "you know me."

"Exactly." She nods, not fooled in the slightest. "Even on your most irritating days he keeps you on a tight leash."

"Oh _really?_" Nick drops his feet flat to the floor, "I hadn't noticed." Leaning forward he calmly whispers, "talk to him for me. Please." He flutters his lashes. "He'll listen to you."

Neal hadn't been expecting miracles, a grin, maybe a sarcastic chuckle, but Diana's expression remains blank, completely unmoved by his plea for assistance. In an effort to gain some sympathy he counters her none reaction by widening Nick's smile, showing all of his pearly white teeth. He's about to take the charade a step further and draw her into a staring contest to see if he can fare any better against her than he did early with Peter, but before the thought's even processed she snaps her head back, breaking into raucous laughter.

It's Neal - _not Nick_ \- who rears back, utterly confused.

Diana calms as quickly as she'd cracked, and looking him dead in the eye, lips pulled into a grim line, she dashes all hope with one coolly delivered word. "No."

Answer delivered she spins her chair back around to face the van's small screen, handily split into four, each segment showcases a different entrance to the warehouse across the street

Neal blinks, frozen in place. "No?"

"That's right Caffrey." A hand in his face, palm out in warning. "_No_. And don't ask again."

Feeling more than a little irritated by her succinct dismissal, Neal drops his gaze and finds himself yet again staring at the packets of pastels still resting on top of the pad of paper in front of him. Cellophane untouched, a price tag baring the Bowne & Co. signature in the top left corner.

"So, who we watching?" He asks after sitting in silence for far too long, needing a distraction from his quandary over the art supplies and the fluttering sensation slowly building in his stomach - an unfortunate and all too familiar reaction to being in the van.

"Ongoing investigation." Diana answers cryptically, and tiredly, after a second's indecision. "Taking images of everyone who comes and goes for now."

When it's clear no further information is going to be freely given Neal gives into the urge to move and shifts in his seat, getting a better look at the single black and white screen. "Looking for someone… in particular?"

Diana glares at him and his fidgety movements.

"Who?" Neal's intrigue is piqued by the mystery.

"How about you tell me what you did to piss Peter off, _then _I'll decide if you're allowed to know."

Eyebrows drawn together in mock offence at her snappishness, he decides he can't pass on the opportunity to put a dent in her Peter pedestal. "Have you considered _I_ may not have done anything and it's actually Peter being overly _Petery_ today?"

"Overly _what_?" She frowns at him.

"You know how he gets." Neal shrugs. Shifting once more, leaning back and exchanging one crossed leg for the other. "He's obsessive and once he gets an idea in his head there's no changing his mind. The man could make being over protective an Olympic sport."

Ignoring his very reasoned explanation for Peter's gruff behaviour she predictably turns all the blame back onto him. "Because I know Peter and I know _you_." Her eyes are back on the screen, but Neal knows that icy stare is meant for him. "And I know you did something bad enough that clearly being around you is too much right now."

The idea that she might be right, that just being around him is too much for his friend to bear stings. It's too close to what he's been thinking recently, in the early hours of the morning when he wakes up to an empty room and experiences a moment of pure terror, that he's back _there_. He often wants to call out, demand Peter come back to keep the bad dreams at bay. He doesn't of course. As much as that childish part of him wants the undivided attention he's smart enough to know how inappropriate that is, not to mention embarrassing.

Doesn't help him deal with the memories any better though. They still haunt him, day or night, they sneak up on him at the most inopportune moments… it's why he never saw the car coming…

"Hey?"

Neal closes his eyes, pushes the images of that house, _that room_ away. "I had a little accident." He says slowly, giving in.

She snorts. "You make it sound like you wet your pants."

Neal throws his head back and sighs at the ceiling once again, irritated none of his usual methods of enticing sympathy are working today. "I was nearly hit by a car, alright?" He taps the bandage on his forehead for good measure. "You'd think that would get me a little compassion, but no, I get Peter shouting at me and dragging me around like… like…"

"A brat?" She glares at him. "Because that's exactly how you've been acting recently. You remember what happened last week?"

"Don't," Neal's turn to hold his hand up in warning, "remind me."

Her eyes find his and her glares softens minutely. "How?"

"How what?" Neal snaps back, gaze falling back on those damn pastels.

Diana rolls her eyes, indicating she clearly knows the game he's playing and is frustrated it's taken him this long to work out she knows and how dare he be annoyed that she hasn't fallen for it. "How do you _nearly_ get hit by a car?"

He pushes back his fringe to expose the plaster. "By jumping out of the way and hitting my head on the sidewalk." Neal mimics her tone and expression, but falls short of sticking out his tongue.

Had this been Peter, such behaviour wouldn't have even occurred to him, but Diana's not Peter, even though she pretends to be sometimes.

"Was Peter hurt?"

"He wasn't there." Neal dismisses, picking up the pastels and the paper, throwing the lot into the nearest draw.

"You left, didn't you?" She concludes. "You left the office when you know that's the _one thing_ Peter has told you not to do. _That's_ why he's mad and making me babysit you."

Neal manages to keep his expression emotionless, right up until the very end, until he hears _that_ word. "Stop!" He stands, throwing his hands in the air, pacing the small space. "I wish everyone would just… just stop! I should be allowed to go for a damn coffee when I want one!"

"This is about you getting _coffee_?"

Neal looks at her and shrugs. "Seriously? That's what you want to focus on? I thought you were fully in favour of the 'not having to watch me at work' thing." He stares her down, daring her to correct him and use the 'b' word again.

"I'm in favour of not giving Peter a heart attack as well." Diana shoots back, voice rising in volume, capturing all of the irritation she directs at him almost daily. "Do you have any idea what he went through while you were missing?"

"What _he_ went through?!" Neal screams back at her, determined to be heard over the roaring in his ears, pushing back the echo of memories he doesn't want. "No, _I don't _and you know why?" He can feel his face heat, blood boiling beneath his skin, so hot he's sure he'd burn anyone who touched him. "Because I was drugged! I was drugged… and tied up … and - and felt up by some guy who had no intention of ever letting me go!"

The second the last syllable leaves his lips Neal knows he's fucked up. Three weeks. Three weeks of 'I'm fines' and bright smiles and 'I don't remembers.' Three weeks of everyone indulging _Peter's _needs and unpredictable behaviour, of being babied to the point of frustration.

Three weeks and he'd managed not to say one goddamn word about what really happened to him during those missing forty-eight hours.

Until now.

Chest heaving, eyes wide, he has no idea where to look or what to say next. He can hardly take it back and say he was joking. Who jokes about something like that?

Ruiz maybe.

But not him.

Diana does know him unfortunately, not as well as Peter but well enough to understand where his lines are drawn. "Neal-" her hand reaches out to him.

The anger might be gone from her eyes, but he steps back in an instinctive move that he's sure looks all too much like a flinch. The air in the van is suddenly none existent. Clawing at his collar Neal fights his tie loose. Lips pressed tight, tears of frustration pushing to be set free, his stare meets hers in silence and before he knows it his feet are moving, heading out the door.

…

"Hey Boss," Jones catches Peter as he passes by his desk. "Got today's case summaries for you to review before debriefing tomorrow."

Peter backs up a step. "We any closer on the Mortenson real estate scandal?"

"Not this time." Jones stands and walks with him up the stairs. "There's still about a decade's worth of sales and purchase deeds to sort through."

"Sounds like a good job for Neal." Peter looks at the collection in his hands and grins.

"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear that." Jones watches Peter closely, he's well aware things are not back to normal, but since the morning's excitement it's clear some Caffrey free time has done the boss good.

"Whatever keeps him occupied and out of trouble." Peter affirms, walking into his office. "I can't dump him on Diana every day."

Jones hums, debating whether to say anything. Peter catches his expression though so decides to plough ahead and ask what they've all been wondering lately.

"How is he doing?"

"Neal?" Peter waits a beat before answering. "He's okay, some nights are better than others."

There's a brief pause before he directs the conversation back to the safer topic of the Mortensen case and Jones lets him. Peter's not said anything overt, but he can tell from the dark smudges under his eyes and the obvious short temper that there's likely been more bad nights than good over the last few weeks.

"You think he could be remembering things?"

"If he is, he isn't sharing." Peter sighs.

And that's the crux of the problem. Three weeks. Three weeks since they rescued Neal from that loft and still, not one word. Now, Jones isn't surprised Neal hasn't come in and started talking about his forty-eight hours of captivity by the water cooler. It would worry him if he did. What does surprise him is he hasn't talked about it with Peter, because deny it all he likes, Jones has spent enough time with the both of them to know Peter Burke is Neal's world. If he's not sharing this with him, then he's not sharing it with anyone. A dangerous path to travel, and a sure-fire way to disaster.

Jones has tried telling him this, but unfortunately, where Neal's concerned, there's what he thinks and then there's what everyone else thinks. Generally, everyone else is wrong in Neal's world. Like a teenager who knows better than all the more experienced adults in his life combined, Caffrey will find a way to justify his reasoning for whatever he's set his mind to. He won't think about negative consequences or the affect his behaviour has on others, just the end result.

"Maybe the memories are jumbled up." He offers, trying to get the conversation back on track. "I doubt being drugged the entire time has helped."

"No probably not." Peter hums distractedly, but doesn't let him continue on the topic. "Hey, did we hear anything from the behavioural analysis team?"

"Nothing came in over the weekend." He sighs, knowing it's not what his boss wants to hear. "I would have called if it did."

"Yeah, I know you would." Peter sighs, a strange expression crossing his face. "Look I realise everyone thinks I'm coddling Neal, but frankly there's nothing about his deal that says I can't put him on permanent desk duty, and I don't need a reason."

"I get it." Jones nods, "Neal isn't an Agent. His safety is your responsibility. I'd probably make the same choices."

"You would?"

"Well, I doubt I'd be letting a felon sleep in my house and spend time alone with my wife, but you know, you and Caffrey… it's different." He shrugs.

"Different?" Peter's eyes narrow.

Their relationship isn't standard is what he means, anyone who knows the two of them can see that. More than once at his regular Poker nights Neal has been a topic of discussion, and every time, no matter who asks, Peter's been consistent in his answer.

"_So, what is it with this Caffrey kid, Burke?" An older agent from Violent Crimes asks in between drags on his cigarette. "You got a thing for him?" He says the words with a wink and smile, like it's a completely reasonable question to be asking._

"_No Al, surprisingly Neal's not my type." Peter answers tiredly._

_Jones watches on and doesn't comment, he's aware Al went to Quantico with Peter, they're around the same age, attended each other's Weddings. It's banter and the usual ragging Peter gets about his unorthodox deal with Neal._

"_Ah, he's too young and pretty for you, I get it." Al gleams and throws down his cards. "Two pair."_

_Peter folds with a good-natured growl and collects up his drink. "You win again."_

"_Well, it'll help me pay for the divorce. Damn blood-sucking lawyer gonna bleed me dry if we don't close things soon."_

"_Tell me about it." Someone else pipes in, obviously a voice of experience._

"_I hear you let Caffrey spend time with your wife," Al turns back to Peter. "Aren't you worried?"_

_Peter near chokes on his scotch. Placing the glass down, he wipes his chin and schools his expression, holding back his amusement before answering._

"_Neal's a good kid at heart. He deserves the chance to prove it." He turns serious, his look turning inward. "Sure, he's a pain in the ass and can get into trouble sometimes, but believe it or not he's more afraid of what El will think of him over anything I could do. She's good for him. Plus, she has me," he grins, "what more could she ask for?"_

The table had subsequently burst into laughter following that declaration, including Peter. Jones likes seeing the relaxed and personable side of his boss. It reminds him that that job isn't everything and it's entirely possible to have it all. And assuming having it all doesn't include an adult child with impulse control issues and a veiled sense of morality, then he's in.

"Yeah, I mean come on, you know you're not exactly subtle?" Jones grins, lightening the mood. "And trust me, even if you did try and hide it, everyone knows when Caffrey's wound you up."

"They do?"

"You have the same face my mother wore whenever she caught me with a comic book during bible study." Before Peter can comment, Clinton continues, "just remember he is Caffrey, keeping him confined usually invites more trouble than it prevents, from my experience anyway."

"I'll bare that in mind."

Jones throws him a knowing smile. Peter isn't naïve, he can guess that most of White Collar, hell the whole New York office, knows not to mess with Neal or suffer the consequences.

"You gonna get that?"

"Huh?"

Jones points to his desk, where Peter's phone is ringing and vibrating against the hard surface. Blinking he quickly gets himself in gear and snatches up the handset. Jones starts to leave but Peter's quick outstretched hand signals him to stop.

"I'll be right there." He breaths tiredly, hanging up.

"What's wrong?"

Peter pockets his cell with a dejected sigh. "Neal's running." The words fall softly from his lips. "He ran from the van. Diana's alone on surveillance so she can't chase after him, we need to bring up his anklet data."

To anyone else he appears more annoyed with the inconvenience than worried, but Jones knows better. "Did she say why?"

Peter's sitting at his desk, signing into the anklet app. "No," he says, glancing at his watch. "Well, I got a couple of hours Caffrey free at least." He continues offhandedly. "There. He's two blocks away from her on the corner of Angel and Wallace."

Jones is already dialling. "Diana, -" he steps out.

He's left Peter staring forlornly at the screen. Something about his dejected body language bothers him. Jones is used to their boss being worried about Neal, and okay, the first few days back were bound to be rocky, but with the depression and anxiety continuing way past the conventional period Jones has grown more than a little worried about their leader and Neal's rock.

"I've told Diana not to worry, we've got his location. You want me to go fetch him?" Jones re-enters, looking at Peter like he's the one that needs help.

"No, no, he's my responsibility." Peter absently shakes his head. "I'll handle him this time." Peter snatches up his car keys and walks out.

…

Feet moving briskly, Neal doesn't stop to think _what _he's doing, merely keeps doing it. Breathing quick and jagged, every rise and fall of his chest hurts like hell. The pain searing, how he imagines a broadsword would feel cutting through his flesh. Incidentally a fate he very nearly faced once while escaping a private residence in Colombia. Yet, despite his body telling him to stop, Neal keeps going for at least another block. He does eventually drop, not in the street like is very tempting, but into the doorway of some long-abandoned building, partially hidden from the view of the few occupants roaming the sidewalk of the equally fated neighbour block.

Like them he feels abandoned. Alone. And completely without help.

Just like he felt three weeks ago…

_Neal wakes up face down, cheek pressed into the coarse fibres of uncovered floorboards. There's a worrying stain not inches from his face and he tries not to think what bodily fluid and how much of it, it would take to make that kind of dark tinge. Shoes surround him, he's not sure if it's multiple people or if his vision is playing tricks on him. Feeling listless Neal attempts to flee once more, but his mind and body are very much separate. The message to move doesn't make it to his feet._

'_Peter?' He calls, but only his voice only echoes inside his mind. 'Where the hell are you, because now would be a very good time to bring in the cavalry!'_

_The air is musty, colder somehow than he remembers from the last time he was awake. With limited vision he can't see much, but he can tell the sofas are gone. 'Peter?"_

"_Shut up will you." A man with wire rimmed glasses and smelling of pot empties a bag of what Neal sees is newly purchased clothes, evidenced by the tags still being attached. "I've heard enough of your mouth for one day."_

"_He keeps asking for someone called Peter." A woman's voice answers. "Think that's his Dad?"_

_She's sounds young. A lot younger than him. She's sitting next to him as he's laying out languid on the dusty floor, running her hot pink polished finger nails through his hair._

"_Hey no playing with the merchandise." The glasses wearing smoker admonishes, lighting a joint and batting her hand away before rolling Neal over. "We need to get him ready to leave."_

"_But he's so cute, look at him." She coos, bending down and almost touching his nose with hers, giving Neal an up-close look at her smooth, tanned, lightly freckled skin. Definitely in her teens. "Do you think Gallagher's still going to want him?"_

"_Are you fucking high?" He tugs Neal's arm out of his suit jacket, giving not one thought to how joints are supposed to work, displacing the woman at the same time.__ "Stop talking and help."_

"_You think he's cute." She laughs and leans back, slipping the lit joint from between his lips and taking a long drag._

"_Pretty boys aren't my thing." The man continues to undress him, __removing his clothes, slowly but without care._

_Neal wills his body to move but nothing happens, then two cold hands slip fingers inside the waistband of his pants and a mew of protest makes it past numb lips. He tries to speak, form words and use his best asset to get him out of this mess but it's no use. Now in only his underwear the hands forcefully roll him over again so he's facing the ceiling and his tongue falls to the back of his throat. He doesn't choke, no strength even for that instinctual lifesaving effort. Instead he lies there, almost naked staring up at cobwebs clinging to rotten wooden supports._

"_You get him dressed, then stay here until we get the signal to move." He looks at her over Neal's still and useless body. "What the hell are you doing?"_

"_It's a nice suit – an expensive suit – I'm not throwing it on the floor." She says with a maturity Neal wouldn't have thought she possessed, and out the corner of his eye sees she's folding it neatly._

"_Fuck-sakes." He looks antsy back at someone out of view, "the sooner we get him outta here the better, that thing on his ankle is going to be the end of all of us."_

…

Making his way to where the little dot on his car computer tells him he'll find Neal, Peter isn't disappointed. He pulls up outside what was once the Angelica theatre, in front of the hunched figure taking refuge in its dilapidated doorway.

"Get in the car." He orders tersely, shouting through the open passenger window, not even bothering to shut off the engine.

Neal stays sitting in the same position he found him, head in his hands staring at the dusty cracked tiled steps, so he turns up the volume and irritation level, "Neal!"

"Peter?" Neal's head snaps up.

The noticeable confusion in the too pale face and glassy blue eyes should dampen his ire, but somehow the idea Neal had run from the van and even now seems surprised that he'd been tracked down so quickly pushes Peter over the edge.

"Get in the car, NOW!"

Neal scrambles, hearing the heat in his words and seeing the anger in his eyes no doubt.

Running around to the passenger side he wastes no time jumping in and opening his mouth. "Peter I'm-"

"Save it." He snaps, holding a finger up in front of his face. "Not one word, Neal. Not one."

There is very little that truly scares Neal, but Peter learnt early on that despite all his bravado and cocksure attitude, he really doesn't like people being upset with him. Being told off is a big deal in Neal's world. Usually Peter felt guilty after shouting at him, but this time, eyeing the slouching figure sitting buckled in next to him, he feels liberated. Neal has been pissing him of since he woke up this morning. Hell, he's been trying to push him over the edge for the past three weeks!

This morning was a tipping because before surviving the commute from hell and the 9am case briefing that consisted of Neal twirling in his chair and sulkily commentating on his day's allocation, Peter had been treated to a frosty breakfast full of dirty looks and feet dragging, where Neal had pointedly declared he felt no need to rush since he his desk wasn't going anywhere. This followed by a concerning communication from a buddy of his in Seattle, which distracted him long enough for Neal to be able to slip out of the office unnoticed. Honestly the few hours he's spent Neal free today have been just enough to recharge his patience, otherwise he can't say _what_ he might have done to him, what he might still do if he continues to behave the way he is.

Still fuming over this latest stunt as he drives out of the city, Peter feels that too familiar niggle of frustration rear its ugly head, the one that seems to be his constant companion of late. He knew something like this would happen, he _knew_ it. Behind that too easy smile, behind the façade danger always awaits. A new set of pencils wasn't going to change it. Stupid of him to think it would.

"Are we going back to the office?" Neal's voice, shy and unassuming breaks the silent tension swallowing the car.

"No." Peter lets the word resonate, then dripping with cynicism and malicious intent he continues to inform him of exactly what he should expect once they reach home.

…

El is in the kitchen putting the seasoning on her oven roasted potatoes when she hears the front door open and the argument that had no doubt started at some point prior to arriving is brought into her home. She decides to wait it out, knowing Peter - and Neal - they need to get things out of their system before they can cut their losses and move on. The last few weeks haven't been easy, what with Neal being tetchy in the mornings and worryingly quiet in the evenings. Peter unwilling to listen to anyone about the current round the clock protection he's taken upon himself. Neal's odd behaviour and Peter's fears for Neal's safety, both rational and not, has left the atmosphere at home somewhat tense as the weeks have go by. But as the voices get louder and she notes one voice in particular seems to be dominating, that's when El starts to worry.

"Of all the stupid, boneheaded-"

"I said I'm sorry. I really don't know what else you want me to say!"

Hearing the rare apology, essentially an admittance of guilt, something Peter has told her Neal _never does_, El's worry very quickly morphs into abject concern and removing her oven gloves she makes her way out into the dining room.

"You're sorry?" Peter mimics, throwing his jacket over the banister and pacing the length of their living room. "You know what? _I'm _sorry. I'm sorry I didn't just throw you back in jail when I had the chance!"

"Peter!" El shouts in shock.

Both men turn and look at her, equally surprised by her sudden presence as she is by what's she's just heard. Breathing heavily, Peter's face is red, the anger still very much alive in his dark eyes. Neal in contrast looks seconds away from losing it, face pale, blue eyes glassy and hands visibly shaking. Whatever this is about, it's serious and has knocked them both off kilter.

"Neal." She orders, nodding towards the stairs without taking her own steely blue eyes off her husband.

For once Neal does as he's told and immediately runs upstairs without even a glance back in their direction. Both Peter and El watch him go, and wait until they hear the slam of the bedroom door before breathing another word.

"What happened?" El gets her demand in first, though slightly out of breath and with a tremble to her voice.

It takes Peter a further minute to form words, mouth opening and closing expelling nothing but air. When he does eventually speak, he's nowhere near as calm as she had been hoping.

"Neal happened." He growls lowly, stomping past her, heading for the kitchen.

"I gathered." She laughs hollowly, lifting a smile to her lips and leaving it on a little longer than feels natural. "But what exactly did Neal do this time?"

A slight upturn of his lips is all her husband affords her just before he bends down to retrieve the bottle of scotch out of the cupboard. "He could have been killed today El." He says unscrewing the cap and pouring a large shot, the words tumbling out. "This morning he slipped out of the office without anyone seeing, ended up nearly getting hit by a car." He releases the confession in one shaky breath, as if he's been holding it in so long, it's taken on a life of its own.

"What? How?" She's stopped short from running off to check on him by Peter grabbing her arm and pulling her back.

"Oh no, no, no" he waves, tone bordering on hysterical. "No sympathy for him, because that's not the worst of it."

Confident since Neal walked in under his own steam that he isn't in need of any urgent care and attention she refocuses attention on her irate husband. "Am I going to need a drink?"

"That might be a good idea." He agrees.

El immediately helps herself to a fresh bottle of Pinot. Watching him take his first sip she waits patiently for the full story. And boy does she get it.

"So, let me get this straight." El reviews what she's just been told. "Neal escapes the office for coffee, hits his head while jumping out the way of a speeding car and then runs away from the van less than an hour after you leave him there because he was bored? Hon, I know you're naturally suspicious and think everything is a con, but clearly Neal's not telling you everything."

"Not listening, not doing as he's told, you name it Neal's not doing it." Peter agrees glibly, wrongly assuming she is equally as outraged by Neal's behaviour as he is.

"Oh honey." She laughs and takes his hand in hers, "you think, maybe Neal feels a little suffocated. It has been three weeks," he groans but she ignores it. "You were worried he was too quiet. Sounds to me like the old Neal Caffrey is starting to come back and feeling more than a little claustrophobic."

Peter takes pause, sips his scotch and puts on his thinking face.

"So, how exactly is he walking after being practically run over anyway?" She ploughs ahead.

"He's fine." Peter breaths, forcefully and with purpose. "A car being chased by the police ran a red light and ploughed into oncoming traffic."

"So, he's okay?" She asks in order to be absolutely certain.

"He probably has one hell of a headache." Peter hedges, trying to be light-hearted about the whole affair. "But yeah, physically he's okay."

"Does this have anything to do with-?"

"No," he sounds almost disappointed as he takes her in his arms, bolstering his own nerves with a hug. "It looks like it was just wrong place wrong time." A laugh missing any humour falls from his lips. "Just happened to be the one-time Neal successfully runs without any of us knowing… otherwise he might well have gotten away with it."

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose." She tries to reason.

"It's Neal." Peters spits. "Everything he does is _on purpose_. I told him to stay in the office. He left. I told him to stay in the van-"

"Well technically-"

"No, don't defend him. He's quite possibly ruined days of surveillance with his stunt this afternoon and there is no excuse for it. How hard is it for him to understand that I'm just trying to protect him?" He slips into silence. El parts her lips ready to suggest they go sit down, but Peter launches into his spiel again. "You know he promised me if I let him back to work he'd follow my direction to the letter. I'm so furious with him, El."

"I see that." She says meaning no sense of irony. "But what I don't see is how shouting at him or threatening him with prison will change anything."

"He needs boundaries, he can't keep circumventing me whenever he thinks he knows better." Peter takes a breath. "He needs to learn to do as he's goddamn told."

"Hun, you're scaring me." El approaches him again, covering his hand with hers. "And I bet I'm not the only one." Her gaze instinctually travels upwards.

"Well he should be scared!" Peter raises his voice, catching on. "One phone call and I can have him back behind bars in time for dinner!" He yells at the ceiling.

"Peter!" El yells at him, a warning to cut it out.

"At least in prison I'll know where he is." He jokes more quietly, but she is less than amused and lets him know by giving him a hard look. "Fine I'll stop threatening him with prison. Happy?"

"You two are too much alike." She eyes him seriously, making it clear the childishness will not be tolerated.

Peter manages to look only slightly contrite as he continues to vent, refilling his drink and eventually moving into the living room to watch the game. El wants to argue with him, talk him through whatever crisis of confidence this is, but she knows her husband. He needs to come down in his own time. He'll realise the insanity of what he's saying and hopefully feel bad enough to actually address it directly with Neal later, not just brush it under the rug like it never happened. Right now, El turns to the one thing she knows will take her mind off things… a strawberry cheesecake is suddenly on the Burke menu for dessert tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

Hearing the soft, sock clad footfalls on her stairs an hour later, El knew it could only be one person so she quickly picks up a magazine off her desk and pretends to read, trying to feign nonchalance in order to assess what's she's dealing with. What she finds is the Neal Caffrey she's seen most evenings since Peter first brought him home. Hair damp, wearing burgundy tapered jogging bottoms and one of Peter's old long sleeve college t-shirts that he seems to have adopted, the clothes alone give off the impression of vulnerability, but coupled with the downcast eyes and sorrowful expression, it's almost convincing.

"Is he still mad?" Neal appears in the kitchen, nervously looking around.

"He's still Peter," El says, tone flat, almost cautious. "Though I recognise him less and less these days." She smiles sadly.

"Me too." Neal looks at his toes. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong."

"Oh, I think you do." El accuses him, holding up her near empty wine glass in offer and not waiting for his answer. "But right or wrong," she takes a fresh glass from the cupboard behind her, "he's used to you disobeying him, so I know that's not why he's so upset. I think Peter's just not dealing very well with everything that's happened."

"Isn't that supposed to be my line?" His tone is suddenly hard, eyes cold, overall expression rigid.

He climbs onto the waiting stool, running his finger up and down the counter, making patterns in the biscuit dust left over from her cheesecake base.

El smiles at him softly. "How are_ you _doing then? Since you brought it up." She pushes the fresh filled wine glass into his fidgeting hands, "and don't lie to me buster."

"I'm alright." Neal mumbles, taking a long sip. El glares at him through her own glass as she lifts it to her lips, making him laugh. "Really." He smiles wider, losing some of the tension in his posture. "I'm sorry for all of this drama, but there's no need to worry… believe it or not, I've been through worse." He chuckles nervously, touching the plaster she can see just under his fringe.

Fearing a repeat of tonight's argument if they don't clear the air, El decides to be blunt. "Neal, I don't know what happened today, but above all else, Peter loves you, you know that, right?"

Neal's suddenly wide eyes and furrowed brow tells her no, he doesn't. Despite everything they've been through, he still doesn't feel loved or wanted or any of the things someone should feel when they have family to rely on.

Eyes narrowing in suspicion, she wonders if it's even possible for him to be this dumb. "Look, Peter may not have changed your diapers or read you a bedtime story," she takes pleasure in the heat that rises in his cheeks with that mental imagery. "But he sees himself as being responsible for you, when you do something dangerous, he gets scared. And we both know how well he expresses his feelings." She waits and looks him over. "Whatever's going on, it's not going to get better by ignoring it. You should go talk to him."

…

Cheeks still burning with embarrassment following his one-sided conversation with Elizabeth, Neal enters the attic where Peter is randomly searching through boxes.

"Knock, knock," he announces, gingerly hauling himself up through the hatch.

He scrambles quickly to his feet to limit exposure to the exposed insulation, brushing dust off his pants before strolling over the wide plinth lining the middle.

"So, I hear you want to read me a bedtime story." Neal chuckles softly, shoving both hands into his pants pockets, peppering Peter with a cheesy grin.

"Huh?" Peter stops rummaging and looks up.

"Nothing." He quickly deflects, rocking back on his heels.

Peter stares at him, gaze assessing and Neal avoids the contact. Instead he flashes him a weak smile that wouldn't fool anyone and turns away.

"El says I worry you and that's why you're so mad at me." He says, running a hand over one of the discarded opened boxes and taking a peek inside.

"El's usually right." Peter closes the gap he's created, flipping over the cardboard lid. "This shouldn't be news."

"El being right?" Neal responds cheekily, taking the hint and shoving both hands in his jogging pant pockets.

"Both." Peter laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Did she send you up here?"

Neal takes a deep breath and nods, deciding not to hold his gaze. "She said I should talk to you."

He's eyeing up a very intriguing picture frame leaning with the glass side against a baluster when Peter answers.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Neal's incredulous, he'd kind of been hoping Peter would laugh it off, say they were good or at the very least be awkward and conveniently find something else he suddenly needs to do.

"You want to talk. We'll talk." Peter throws his hands out, shoulders mid shrug.

"Technically I didn't want to – your wife is kind of making me."

"Whatever." Peter dismisses waving his words away. "So…how you feeling?"

Right now, with Peter looming over him, what Neal feels is incredibly small. It's a skill Peter has with a lot of people he's noticed, but one especially effective with him. Anytime he gets in trouble and Peter finds out, which is all the time it seems nowadays, Peter only has to look at him to make Neal feel chastised.

"Good. I guess. Considering." Neal nods, it's not a lie. He could be feeling a lot worse. Head injuries aren't exactly a walk in the park.

"Good. So, you want to tell me what really happened today?"

Neal thinks on it, but looks blankly back at Peter with a shrug. Not trusting his voice all of a sudden. Something doesn't feel right. He's not sure if it's the cold or the musty smell of the attic that seems synonymous with all cold dark spaces, but he has the sudden urge to leave, to _run._

"Neal I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is?" Peter's voice fades out to an annoying buzzing noise.

He feels warm all of a sudden. Too warm.

"You spoke to Diana?" Neal asks cautiously, pulling at the neck of his t-shirt.

Peter nods and somehow the movement hurts _his _head. The dull ache he'd been feeling since climbing up here is increasing tenfold, including a full-on pounding behind his eyes.

"She didn't tell me anything, said I should talk to you. Look if there's something you remember, something you think you can't talk to me about…"

He's going to be sick. The room's spinning and it's not stopping. He doesn't care what Diana did or didn't say, he needs to leave-

"Neal?"

Peter's calling his name, but Neal can't breathe, it's taking all his energy to draw one breath in after another, each inhale scraping his throat like sandpaper.

"Neal, Neal, kid talk to me!" Peter's voice. He's scared. Panicked. "What's going on?" His voice is distant again, like he's moved far away.

No. Peter's not moved. He has, he's moved. He's _moving_. Obviously having already dropped through the hatch, an action Neal doesn't recall making, he finds himself running down the hall towards the stairs. Not stopping he ploughs past El who appears at the bottom and heads straight out the front door, not stopping for his coat, shoes or anything.

Out on the sidewalk, the setting sun casting an orange glow over Brooklyn, Neal comes to a skidding halt at the end of the block. The sound of car horns fading out behind him, he spins around on the spot looking for a way out, a direction to take that's safe. He's made it this far… they can't catch him. He can't let them take him back… Arms suddenly encircle him from behind, lifting his feet off the floor with the force. Neal kicks his attacker in the shin, an elbow to the chest. He has to escape now, if they get him they're going to kill him, once _he's_ done what _he_ wants with him, they'll kill him, and Neal will likely welcome it by then.

"Neal damn it, stop alright! Just stop!"

"Peter?" Neal stops instantly at the sound of _that_ voice.

Looking down he can see the arms holding him do look older and slightly less thick than those of the guards who restrained him before, but it's the wedding ring on the left hand which sells it. Breaking down for the second time in twenty-four hours is not how Neal saw his day going when he woke up this morning, but what with the jumble of confusing memories flashing up whenever they feel like it and after being put through the wringer with the car accident and then his slip in the van, he's feeling exhausted physically, mentally and emotionally. Being told off by Peter all the way home was just the icing on his cake.

"It's okay," Peter whispers down his ear. "You're okay." He repeats, over and over, not letting go.

Losing the last of his strength to fight Neal sags towards the floor. "Let me go," he moans when Peter refuses to give him up. "Please Peter, just let me go."

The arms holding him loosen slightly, but only enough to spin him around. "What do you remember?"

Peter shakes him, asks again and again but it's no use. Neal's spent. If Peter wants to carry him back to his house that's up to him. The message seems to get across that he can't, he just can't, not now, and instead of getting angry or shouting at him some more Peter pulls him close, one hand nestling his hair and a warm bristled cheek pressing next to his.

"Alright," Peter squeezes him tight, "alright."


	5. Chapter 5

Diana returns to the office as soon as the warehouse is locked up for the night. Falling into her chair, head in hands, she's glad the day is nearly over. Ever since Neal ran from the van she's been preoccupied, thinking over and over about the signs she missed. He may be a damn good conman, but she's an FBI Agent. She should have known something wasn't right when Neal was all easy smiles and camaraderie these last few weeks, while Peter was seemingly the unhinged one. He was using Peter's justified anxiety as a distraction, a way to deter focus from himself and firm up the belief that the boss was just being his usual over protective self. And she fell for it. They all fell for it.

_Shit._

Picking up her phone she knows what she needs to do to make this right.

"_Diana, you okay?" _Peter answers on the second ring, concern clear in his voice.

She hesitates before speaking, questioning just how in the hell to start this conversation."Yeah, just tired." She dismisses quickly. "How's Caffrey?"

Silence on the other end, then… _"He'll be fine. Just another bump in the road. Nothing I'm not used to with Neal."_

She takes comfort in the lightness in his tone, even if it is a front.

"_Actually, I wanted to ask you about today..."_ He continues, starting the conversation she had intended to initiate.

Even with Peter outright asking, she's suddenly stuck on how to continue. How can she tell him what happened without feeling like she's breaking some kind of confidence? It's clear Neal hadn't meant to say anything. He'd ran from the van as much to get away from her as to avoid answering the questions he knew she'd be obligated to ask.

Torn, between wanting to share with her boss and friend and not betraying Neal's moment of weakness, she again hesitates. "Peter, there's more to it than Caffrey being… well _Caffrey_."

"_What has he told you?"_

Peter's question does nothing to help her out of this dilemma, in fact it makes her feel worse. She could tell him everything. It's not like she owes it to Neal to keep his secret. It is why she called him after all. Everything would be better out in the open anyway, right?

"I can't." She hears herself say, dejection felt deep in her bones. Being violated by a stranger is bad enough, and despite trying very hard to convince herself otherwise, Diana knows if it were her, she'd be pissed as hell if the people she trusted most took it upon themselves to violate her privacy too. "You need to talk to him." She tells him flatly, hoping her bluntness signals how hard it is to say even that much without feeling completely shitty. "Just promise me you'll talk to him."

There's a brief moment of silence on the other end and Diana wonders if he's hung up.

"_I will," _His tone serious, yet understanding. _"Thanks Diana. Go home, I'll see you tomorrow."_

The line does drop then and Diana slowly lowers the handset. Looking around the empty bullpen, watching the light through the windows slowly fading as day turns to night, home sounds like a damn good idea right now.

…

Hanging up on Diana and resuming his rummaging through the attic boxes, it's not long before Peter hears the scuffing of feet as his visitor hauls himself up through the hatch.

"So," Neal chuckles nervously, avoiding eye contact. "I hear you want to read me a bedtime story." He flashes a weak smile.

Caught off guard, Peter has no immediate response, and Neal quickly goes on to admit that Elizabeth has essentially forced him up here. Now, he knows what _he wants_ to say, but remembering how his thoughtless blunt responses tend to incite antagonism between them, Peter thinks before speaking this time. His initial anger about today's events may have dampened, but it's still there, simmering just below the surface. He doesn't want to let Neal off the hook, yet he also doesn't want another argument. Diana's instruction to _talk to him_ pops uninvited into his head and Peter concedes it's probably about time he listened to the women in his life.

"Okay"

"Okay?"

He had been trying for nonchalance, but judging by Neal's high-pitched reply, he didn't reach the mark. "You want to talk. We'll talk." Peter bites his top lip, holding back the irritated tirade that wants to let rip.

"Technically I didn't want to – your wife is kind of making me." Neal crosses his arms over his chest.

He's being stubborn, Peter muses, decides two can play at that game. "Whatever." He waves his hand to dismiss any semantics. "How you feeling?"

Neal seems to shrink in on himself at that innocent question, leaving Peter wondering what the hell he's said wrong now. When the silence stretches, he considers El might not be wrong when she'd suggested maybe he's missing something… Looking at this vulnerable Neal stood before him, he's missing a lot of somethings.

"Neal I can't help you if I don't know what the problem is?" He growls out of frustration. "If there's something you remember?"

Still nothing.

Peter continues to verbally poke at him, all the while watching Neal getting increasingly uncomfortable.

"No, I don't!" Neal breaks his silence, "Peter?" he pleads bleakly, wheezing loudly.

"Neal?" It's only upon recognising that the normally cool, calm and collected Caffrey is actually hyperventilating that Peter starts to panic. "What's wrong?"

Failing with his words Peter reaches out. His kid is falling apart before his eyes and he needs to do something to make it better, but before his outstretched hand can even graze one arm Neal's off and running, running with unbelievable speed. He chases after him, but the couple of second delay costs them dearly. When he sees Neal stomping down the stairs, reaching the bottom step Peter thinks for sure he's going to stop, but no. Neal keeps going. Flinging open the porch door, and with no shoes or coat, runs out into the street.

Hearing the blaring of car horns Peter fears the worse. Hitting the sidewalk, he sees Neal's still running with clear disregard for anything in his way, that is until he reaches the end of the block and comes to a sudden, unprecedented halt.

Peter doesn't stop. Fear and adrenaline his driving force he closes the gap and before he can think better about it grabs Neal around the waist, trapping his arms in the process.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" He screams, incensed at the utter stupidity of what's just happened.

"Let me go!" Neal tries to fight him off, but his uncoordinated, desperate hits are no match for Peter.

Neal may well be younger, but he lacks training and form. While an elbow to his ribs and a few kicks to the shins are certainly going to be felt in the morning, they aren't enough to make him let go. Though it does make him realise shouting while physically restraining a scared and panicked person isn't his brightest idea.

"It's okay," Peter whispers in his ear, gentling his hold and pulling the still struggling body backwards. "You're okay." He shushes, repeating the words over and over until they come true.

Neal continues to beg for freedom, but Peter doesn't comply. Instead he balances their combined weight and spins Neal to face him. It's only after getting a good look at his friend's flushed face and tear streaked cheeks, that Peter understands just how badly he's screwed up.

Practically having to drag him back to the house, Neal doesn't need anyone sending him to his room this time. In a sudden spurt of energy Neal gets his feet back under him and breaking out of Peter's hold barrels past El standing on the outside steps, heading straight up the stairs.

"He's fine." Peter meets his wife's anxious gaze, both flinching when they hear the bang of Neal's bedroom door.

"I doubt that." El eyes him coolly, walking away and leaving him to shut the front door behind them.

Joining her in the living room Peter runs both hands over his face into his hair and drops to sit on the couch, letting the eerie silence of the house settle over them. "It wasn't me," he looks up at her, "not just me. I promise."

He holds her gaze and she softens' somewhat. "You're going to tell me what happened."

He thinks it over and realises he can't grant her request in any satisfactory way because he really doesn't know. "I may have gotten a little frustrated."

"May have?" El folds her arms, "Peter I heard you shouting from down here-"

"I know, I know," Peter jumps up and closes the gap between them, stealing a hug. "I've never seen him so… so…"

"Scared?" She declines to offer anything, but doesn't prevent him from wrapping his arms around her.

"I think he remembered something." He looks at her pleading for answers, and though she finally relaxes enough to wrap her arms around him, give the hug he so desperately needs, it doesn't make her magic.

Feeling ineffectual in his ability to deal with any of this, Peter decides it's time to bring in some outside help.


	6. Chapter 6

Jones arrives at the Burke house thirty minutes after receiving the call. He'd stayed late in the office, forgoing his usual wind down date at the gym to wait on a completely different call, but when Peter asked if he could come around right away, something about the distress in his voice had him using some questionable driving to do just that.

Reaching the top stoop, the porch door swings open before he has a chance to knock, as if Peter's been standing behind it waiting for him to arrive.

"Thanks for coming." He ushers him inside

"No problem." Jones walks in, wiping his feet.

"Hi Clinton," Elizabeth greets from the dining room where's she's laying the table.

"Mrs Burke." He nods, but doesn't venture further into the house. Caffrey may be a regular fixture here, feeling free to disregard normal social boundaries and wander wherever he pleases, but Jones knows his relationship with the Burke's is far more professional and respects that difference immensely. "So," he turns to his boss when the silence stretches on, "you were kind of cryptic on the phone?"

He watches his boss and wife exchange worried glances, surprisingly it's Elizabeth who abandons her task and steps forward.

"We need your help."

.

"Caffrey?" Jones knocks on the closed bedroom door.

He receives a low hum of acknowledgement, so decides to forgo waiting on an actual invite and walks straight in. What he discovers isn't quite what he'd been expecting. Based on what he'd just been told, he'd prepared for the worst, but what he's found is Caffrey dressed in jogging bottoms and a long sleeve tee, sitting crossed legged in the middle of the twin bed, a sketchbook resting on both knees with not an ounce of gel in his hair.

Disconcerted by the utter casualness of the situation, Jones shoves both hands in his pockets and asks the first thing that pops in his head. "Don't know where to start?"

Neal's eyes rise in accusation, then following his gaze, fall to the pencil held suspended over the blank page. "Something like that." Dropping said pencil, letting it bounce on the mattress and roll off to hit the floor, he heaves a heavy put-upon sigh. "Peter call you?"

"He told me what happened." Jones nods simply, stepping further inside and shutting the door.

Observing him carefully Jones can tell something's going on behind those expressive blue eyes, something not good, but before he can open his mouth to ask, Neal suddenly and frantically shakes his head.

"I'm not going to talk about it." He pushes the sketch pad off his lap and stands, retreating to the other side of the room.

"That's fine." Jones shrugs, brushing off the sudden change from calm to frantic and slides around the arm chair facing the bed. "You don't have to."

"Yeah I do," Neal chuckles dryly, "Peter wants to know," he points in his direction. "That's why you're here."

Jones can't refute that. Peter's never needed help handling Caffrey before, the two of the them are inseparable. It had worried him at first, the closeness that seem to form out of nowhere. It took him over two years of being an Agent in White Collar to even get considered for Burke's task force, yet Peter allowed Neal more influence and insight into the department on his first day than most rookies get their first year on the job. Now he holds the perspective that Peter's taken Neal on as a project as well as an asset. Whatever he can do to help, he's fine with that.

"Okay, yeah he's worried about you," Jones nods, taking a seat. "Tell me what you need."

"Not to tell Peter." Neal blurts firmly. "That's… that's what I need. Don't tell Peter, anything. I can't…" he cuts himself off, pinching his nose and closing his eyes, taking several steadying deep breaths before speaking again. "He can't know."

Jones sighs and looks briefly down at his clasped hands. It's a repeat of their conversation this afternoon in the car, only much less playful. "He'll understand."

Neal stares at him through deeply troubled eyes. "He won't."

There's no conviction in his words, which means it's a question. _Will Peter understand? Will Peter freak out if he shares what happened? Will any of them look at him the same way again? _Admittedly this is new territory for them, and Jones can't be sure of Neal's reaction to being seen like this. Up until now they've been pretty much professional equals, sharing a joke, a drink or a little wisdom. Personally, Caffrey's always been a wall.

"Look," he waits for Neal to look over at him. "I can tell you one thing. Keeping this to yourself, it does no one any good. I've lost more friends to PTSD than I did in service." Sensing this entire conversation is going to be mostly one way, he asks the question most needed answering right now. "Forget about Peter for a minute, or anyone else and what they might think." Jones sits forward. "Do you honestly think you can speak about what happened?"

Collapsing dejectedly on the bed, eyes to the floor Neal shrugs and nods, muttering a barely detectable "sure."

"Okay," Jones leans in. "Do you want to?"

…

"Peter!"

Peter jumps and frantically shushes El as he guides her away from the bottom of the stairs.

"It's not what it looks like." They reach the perceived safety of the kitchen, "I wasn't spying."

El is predictably unimpressed. "That's exactly what you were doing."

"No!... No," he repeats more calmly, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I was just going to check on them. It's been a while."

She's tired of playing these games and having to pick up the pieces. El feels very much like she gives a hell of lot to this marriage and a life she never envisioned living. Before meeting Peter her plan involved fancy food, plenty of wine and beautiful venues where she could get up close and personal with the most revered art. Not that she regrets anything, she loves Peter and loves that he includes her in his world, but that world is sometimes scary and when things get dangerous, the last thing they need is him keeping secrets from her.

"Don't lie to me Peter Burke." She tells him straight, no emotion, no manipulation.

"I'm not-"

"Zip it!" El holds up her hand, gaze like steel. "You're worried about him. I know, Jones knows, we all _know_, thing is the one person who doesn't know is the one that really needs to, because right now it seems like you're really irritated by his very presence."

Peter rears back, eyes wide, mouth open, struggling to form the words… "He does not-"

"Peter when you came home, were you or were you not yelling at him, threatening him with prison?"

"I did that, but-"

"And this morning, did you or did you not threaten him, and I quote, 'not to complicate your day'?" She folds her arms, eyebrows raised, daring him to correct her.

Luckily Peter has enough sense to look contrite. "That's what I always say, it's just our thing, he knows I'm being hard on him for his own good..."

Normally she's fully committed to supporting her husband, but not when she's knows _he's knows _he's completely out of line.

"Peter, you've been snappy and short-tempered ever since Neal started back to work." Leaning forward she takes his hands in hers. "Hon, he's been through something I don't want to even imagine, but he needs to talk in his own time. He needs to talk to the Peter Burke who isn't going to flip out the second he hears something he doesn't like. He needs to talk to the Peter Burke who will give him what he needs most." She demonstrates by enveloping him a loose hug. "Just be there for him, let Neal decide what he needs and when. You don't always have to fix everything."

.

The second Jones appears in his room Neal's heart sinks. He'd so been hoping he could just hide away up here until the morning and pretend nothing from the past twenty-fours ever happened.

Of course, Peter would have other plans.

The day so far had quite frankly, _sucked_. As if getting unintentionally involved in a cop chase this morning wasn't enough, running from Diana and then Peter certainly should be. Only this morning Peter read him the riot act on expected behaviour in the office and he'd honestly intended to comply, bar the odd complaint about his own mistreatment of course. All part and parcel of his plan to wear Peter down, annoy him into picking a case that actually gets them out in the field. The furthest he's walked during the hours of 9 – 5 has been the copier room one floor down, and even then, half the time Peter makes the intern go with him.

To try and make up for everything he's spent the better part of this evening trying to get on paper the nightmarish images from his dreams. A sketch of the bastard responsible would surely put him back in Peter's good books because it would give him something to go on, but alas, the second he even thinks of putting pencil to paper he freezes, unable to make a mark no matter how hard he tries.

"I'm not going to talk about it." Neal dismisses, jumping off the bed, discarding the useless sketch pad.

Jones brushes off his refusal. "You don't have to."

But Neal knows that's a lie. _Don't kid a kidder,_ something his mom used to say to him all the time.

"Don't tell Peter," is his answering request when Jones asks what he needs.

He's trying to get him to relax, to let his guard down and share in his own time. All the tricks he's used on countless marks over the years.

"He'll understand."

Neal's response is automatic. "He won't."

Despaired Neal drops back down on the bed, legs no longer having the strength to hold him up. The empty sketch pad mocking him from its discarded place on the floor. Jones has no idea of his true thoughts. His real worry is that if he tells the full story Peter will take matters into his own hands and that will spell the end of his FBI career. He's caused enough trouble in Peter's life, him getting fired for assaulting another federal agent cannot be Neal's legacy.

It takes a minute for Jones' soft words to break through his panic, but he answers the questions asked of him. Yes, he can talk about what happened and yeah, he does want to surprisingly. No lies there. But he's not yet ready, not yet got the narrative formed in his head. He can't even sketch that nightmare face from his dream, so he's not overly surprised despite his natural desire to talk, he can't find the words.

Just as he's working up to telling Jones this, so he knows Neal's not being difficult on purpose for a change, Peter appears, knocking on the door as he's opening it.

"Can I come in?" he asks purely out of formality.

Neal stays the silent observer, gaze tracking the awkward movements of Peter and the purposeful actions of Jones as they swap places.

"I'll just be downstairs." Jones excuses himself politely.

To which Peter responds warmly, thanking him. A soft smile on his lips, the likes of which Neal remembers used to be aimed at him no so long ago.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Neal speaks tiredly, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor. "Haven't we been down this road already?"

His words are cool and belay a control he knows he doesn't feel, but that's always been his skill. If he couldn't convince people of things that aren't real then what kind of conman would he be?

"I was hoping we could try again." Peter stands from the chair to sit by his side on the bed.

With an exaggerated eye roll Neal shuffles over, tucking clasped hands between his knees. "You're not going to quit, are you?"

"Have I ever?" Peter grins, nudging Neal's shoulder with his own.

Neal looks down at his feet with a snort. "I guess not."

He always feels small next to Peter, like he embodies everything Neal wants to be but knows never will. That's just not meant to be his life. Some, mainly Mozzie, say he needs to get over it and embrace his present since the future can never be seen, but Neal has always been a dreamer and without hope that things can be different, Neal's not sure he could continue being him.

...

Silence hangs between them. Peter lets it linger for a short while, taking on board his wife's advice about not trying to fix everything, but avoidance can only be a short-term response. Neal is going to have to face reality eventually and in his experience, it's best not to prolong the inevitable.

"Things haven't been easy, have they?" He starts diffidently, hinting at more than just the past three weeks.

"No, they certainly have not."

Risking a glance sideways Peter is pleased to see the slight upturn of Neal's lips as his speaks. He realises it's been a long time since he's seen Neal smile, not his conman 'trust me' smile, or the faux friendly 'everything's sunshine' smile. A real show of amusement, no matter how sardonic. But unfortunately, those five words and the facial tick which could almost be a grin seems to be all the response he's going to get. Silence once again engulfs the room, leaving them both staring at the floor twiddling their thumbs, and the pressure is on him again to break it. Peter may not be as good as El in the whole 'emotional support' department, but he isn't the kind of guy who can sit around and wait for someone else to make the difference either.

Letting his hands drop between his knees, Peter gears up to start the conversation he's been pushing for since they got Neal back. "Look, Neal -"

"Peter about today…" Neal breathes at the same time, gaze travelling to the ceiling and staying there.

Sensing this moment is not his to control after all, Peter keeps quiet and with a tip of his chin lets Neal have the floor.

"I wasn't trying to cause you trouble."

"Not what it looked like." He retorts before thinking better of it.

Peter sees the mixture of emotion cross the kids pale face and instead of butting in with the rest of what he wants to say, he waits. And the pay off is better than he expected. It's telling how much people miss by not watching, by not paying attention to what others are saying and only waiting for their chance to speak.

"I know," Neal nods slowly. "I don't know what I was running from, not really. I guess just being in the van… But I want you to know," he turns quickly, looking Peter in the eye, "I wasn't running from you… I wouldn't." Forcing a smile, the hold Neal has on keeping his tears at bay loosens. "Shit." He quickly turns away, swiping at the errant drops trailing his cheeks.

"It's okay," Peter tells him, feeling like a total heel for not considering Neal's pre-existing anxiety about being in the van before throwing him in there.

"No, it isn't." Neal angrily shakes his head, making a swipe of his nose with his sleeve.

"Ew, what are you five?" Peter bats the offending appendage away without thinking.

Dropping his gaze, Neal pulls away and just like that they're back to where they started this conversation, only Peter's looking at Neal not the floor and he hates what he sees.

He knows this isn't just about the van. It's everything that's built up between them and been ripped apart again, this time courtesy of Ruiz. Their relationship has developed by leaps and bounds in such a short time, the term 'friend' is no longer how Peter thinks of him. Neal Caffrey came into his life as a case file, part of his job, but instead of walking away once his job was done Peter found it impossible to just walk away. When he supported Neal through his trial, making sure the kid was safe in lock up since he was justifiably denied bail, and again following his sentencing, he told himself he was just doing his job. When he touched base with a few of his guard friends on their regular poker nights he passed his enquires off as mere curiosity. The day he finally let go, the same day Reese gave him an ultimatum, his final act was an instruction. If anything happened to Neal before his release, they were to call him directly. And for three years, six months, Peter heard nothing. Until Diana gave him the news that day in the bank. Neal had escaped and the warden was requesting his help to get him back.

Now, despite all he's done, all he's likely to do, there is no denying it, Neal is family. Someone Peter will put his life on the line to protect. What he never saw coming, what he couldn't have predicted if it slapped him in the face was _this_. Neal reciprocating the feeling of family, looking at him as something more than his ticket out of jail, like Peter had never not been there for him and could always be relied upon to make things right. _I wasn't running from you… I wouldn't._

Those words bring a moment of clarity, where all is still, only the sound of Neal's soft breathing breaking the stifling atmosphere.

"Come here," not waiting for him to comply, Peter awkwardly reaches around the hunched shoulders to squeeze his arm.

"I'm sorry…" Neal mumbles tightly, sounding utterly confused by his own loss of control.

"You don't have to be," Peter shakes him playfully. Then he thinks more about it, curiosity getting the better of him, "for what incidentally?"

"Everything." He laughs feverishly. "Now, last night, this morning, pissing Diana off." He reels off, ticking each one with his fingers. "I should have just stayed in the office like you said."

And with that shameful admission out, Neal grips the sleeve of Peter's still attic dusted shirt and turns, burying his face in the material bunched at the shoulder. There's no tears, no shaking, no nothing. Just Neal hiding from the world and using Peter as his shield to do it.

"Yeah you should have." He heaves a heavy sigh, the weight of responsibility pressing down upon him once again.

Firming up his hold using both arms, settling into the role Neal has chosen for him to play, Peter lightly presses his lips to the hot forehead resting against his shoulder. Communicating in that one pure gesture all the love of friendship, the burden of parenthood and that no matter what, he'll be there to come between him and anything that tries to hurt him.


	7. Chapter 7

Neal doesn't know how it happened. One minute they're sat side by side, just two guys trying to sort out their latest misunderstanding, and the next he's spilling all of his sins and hiding in Peter's arms. What has gone so wrong in his life that it's come to this? That he can't talk himself out of the very simple problem of one overprotective FBI agent?

"Yeah you should have." He hears Peter sigh wearily, like he's had just about enough of him and his problems tonight.

Who can blame him? Nobody likes needy and Neal's certain that's exactly how he's coming across right now. He started off intending to be apologetic so they could put this to bed and start fresh tomorrow, but as the words left his mouth the constricting feeling in his chest grew tighter and tighter until he just couldn't keep it in any longer.

Eyes closed, face pressed up against Peter's cotton shirt, breathing in the familiar warming scent of store brand aftershave, Neal decides to hell with it. He's comfortable where he is, in the only safe place he's known in very a long time and no one's going to take that from him, not tonight. He fleetingly wishes he could travel back in time and tell his younger self what he's missing out on, maybe if he'd realised sooner how Peter felt about him then he might have turned himself in and saved everyone a whole lot of hassle.

Peter's arms closing tighter around him pull Neal out of his dysfunctional thinking. He assumes it's a precursor to being forced to face reality and, despite his previous assertions, prepares to be pushed away. What is isn't prepared for is the soft, tender and slightly damp touch of lips against his forehead. Neal instinctively tenses, his mind questioning why Peter would do this to him? It's acts like this, ones which are completely contrary to the man he knows that mess with Neal's understanding of the world. He needs normal right now, and since normal is being shouted at, threatened with prison and generally being the first one punished for something anyone else would get a slap on the wrist for, then so be it. That he can handle. That he can rebel against—in his own annoying way. This... this _kindness_… it's confusing as all hell.

"Stop over thinking it." Peter's gruff amused voice breaks through his thoughts, jostling him.

Unable to hold onto his irritation in the face of Peter's ESP, Neal decides to hell with it. Nothing he's done today has earned him a free pass, but for once he isn't going to argue. 

.

To Peter it feels like it takes forever for Neal to relax, to essentially admit he isn't as stronger as he too often pretends to be. He gets it. Neal prides himself on his ingenuity and ability to improvise on the fly. And though Neal always _seems_ like he has control of his life, Peter knows all too well the reality is the complete opposite. Neal lost the freedom to make his own choices the day he forged those bonds and as a ward of the criminal justice system, it's Peter who has the control to choose the right path for him now.

He's going to choose one right now in fact.

"Want a do-over?"

"That would be great." Neal laughs drily into his collar. "But I think we've past the point of no return."

Peter suppresses a groan. Everything's a battle with Neal and he really shouldn't have expected this time to be any different.

"We passed that years ago." Peter slips off the bed to stand, dragging Neal up with him.

Without letting go he uses his free hand to pull the sheets back before pushing him back down on the mattress.

"This is humiliating." Neal grumbles, flowing with the movement none the less.

"Deal with it." Peter presses a hand to his chest, nudging him to lie down.

Grunting through the pull he feels in his back, Peter leans over to tuck him in, only to look up once finished to find Neal glaring at him from under hooded eyes. "What's up now?"

Neal's expression softens slightly, but he doesn't lose the frown. "You sending me to bed without dinner?"

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"Well then." Peter glares him down. "I think sleep is what's best right now, don't you?"

"If you say so." Neal rolls over, brunching the covers up under his chin, leaving Peter two choices- leave, or talk to the back of his head.

It's always one step forward two steps back with Neal, and that's on their good days. Peter knows he can't afford to drop the ball and let Neal distract him by making him angry, but at the same time he can't ignore the insolent behaviour either.

Schooling his expression, swallowing back a natural retort, Peter drops to sit on the edge of the bed. "Look, I know it's never easy between you and me, but I need you to understand something," he pauses, tries to get the sudden quiver in his voice under control. "The thought of losing you?" He fails. His voice breaks and from here on out his focus is on keeping his eyes dry instead. "It hurts. I don't care how crazy you think I am or how much you probably want to run right now. I give a damn about you for no reason I can fathom." He pauses, daring Neal to comment. "That's how I know."

"Know what?" Neal fidgets, rolling over to hit at his pillow, kicking Peter in the process, obviously agitated and doing his best to show it.

"That I love you," he delivers simply, shrugging when Neal freezes mid pillow punch, "and like it or not, I will do anything in my power to protect you."

Neal flops onto his back and lies still, staring up at the ceiling. When there's no response for several minutes, because of the low lighting, he starts think maybe Neal's fallen asleep, but upon leaning in closer to check, surprisingly strong and coherent words float up to him.

"Does Elizabeth know?"

"Does Elizabeth know what?"

Neal tips his head, frown transforming in to a cheesy face splitting grin. "That you love me." Peter starts to groan, but the sound does nothing to dampen Neal's enthusiasm. "I mean it's really something you should discuss with your wife. She has a right to know if her husband ..."

Peter treats Neal to his usual frowning smile, the one he uses when he knows he shouldn't be proud or amused or anything remotely good, but can't help it because once again, whatever he's done, it's just so quintessentially Caffrey.

"Enough," he grouses, making his way to the door ready to say goodnight, "should have known you wouldn't take this seriously."

"Okay." Neal calls out, raising up to lean on his elbow.

Mouth open intending to argue, which is how their conversations normally go, Peter blinks and asks, "Okay?"

"I'll tell you everything I've remembered." Neal nods sombrely, relaxing back down as Peter steps closer. "That's what you want isn't it?"

"It is." Peter nods slowly, waiting for the catch.

"On one condition-"

"I knew it." Peter harrumphs.

"What?" Neal frowns at him now, feigning confusion.

"There's always a catch with you."

"Can I finish?" Neal's looking up at him with serious eyes.

"Sure." He nods humbly, "what condition?"

"Tomorrow," Neal swallows and looks away, eyes shining a touch too brightly. "I'll tell you everything I remember but once I do, I get to go back to work, no desk duty, no escorts, my full two miles like before."

Peter processes the request with a distrustful scowl. He notices there's no mention of going back to live in his own place though.

"You tell me everything you know, and I agree to talk about the rest." He shoots back, and can see by Neal's displeased frown that's not what he wanted to hear. "Okay, tell you what, you tell me everything and I promise to give it serious consideration."

"What about cases? I've not left the office in-"

"Three weeks," Peter rolls his eyes, "yes I remember. Look, I'm not keeping you out of the field for fun. The guys who took you are still out there. It's for your own safety."

Neal huffs a dejected sigh, "But you promise to think about it?" He asks, averting his gaze once again.

"I do." Peter grins down at him, patting his head lightly and brushing back the rarely seen fluffy hair.

Neal breaths out a soft 'okay' and following a brief pause, asks in a shy voice, "what about tonight?"

Peter doesn't understand at first, but it quickly comes to him. He abandons his plan to leave and pulls up the chair. Slouching back, kicking his feet up to rest on top of the sheets he delves through his mental encyclopaedia of cases and finds an old favourite. "There was this one time at the Channing…"

.

Once he's sure Neal's fast asleep Peter quietly closes the guest bedroom door and quickly jogs down stairs.

"All okay?" Jones asks the second he spots him.

"He's agreed to talk." Peter steps into his living room and looks around, doesn't see El but can hear the sounds and smell the smells of cooking in the kitchen. "Did he share anything with you before I came in?"

"Only that he remembers what happen and wants to talk."

"That's good." Peter nods, hands naturally travelling to his hips as he repeats those two words over. He's trying to act like everything's normal, that this is just another bump in the road of the Burke-Caffrey journey, not like they haven't had plenty of those since Neal was let out of prison. But it's not a bump in the road, not a slice of Neal's past back to haunt him, or Peter's for that matter. It's an op gone wrong, an op Neal was neither trained for or protected on. This shouldn't be happening and Peter's angry that it is, angry he's allowed it to happen and worried nothing will be the same after.

Peter quickly takes a deep soothing breath and huffs it out, suppressing the hysteria that wants to be his emotional release right now. "Any advice?"

"It's a trauma Peter." Jones turns, heading for the door to leave. "You carry on as normal and let things come out in their own time. Be there when it does. That's the only thing you can do."

Peter pinches the back of his own neck. "I don't know if I can take much more."

The bare honesty in that statement alone brings Jones to a halt and Peter actually feels bad for dragging him into this.

"Keeping him holed up is only going prolong things." Jones tells him seriously. "Caffrey needs things to be normal right now. Being out in the field with you is normal." He claps him on the shoulder as he resumes moving and steps out into the porch. "Hey, if anything, at least you'll be able to keep an eye on him better. No more sneaky coffee runs."

It takes a minute but eventually Peter feels the frown drop from his face and a light grin try to take its place. "Okay, I'll think about it."

"Well don't take too long, remember you can't keep him locked up indefinitely," Peter gives him a smirk and Jones concedes. "Alright maybe _you_ can… but it won't change things."

"Back to normal huh?" Peter sighs, grudgingly accepting the inevitable.

"If you really want to help him."

Help him. Trying to help him is exactly what's got Neal into this mess. If he'd said no to the anklet in the first place Neal may still be in prison but at least he'd be safe.

"Thanks Jones." Peter smiles softly, covering for his anxiety.

He sees Jones out, watching him make his way down to the sidewalk before heading back inside.

.

"Everything ok?" El asks when Peter appears in the kitchen. "Neal still in his room?"

He's standing in the doorway staring at her with that dopey smile on his face and she stares back waiting for his answer.

"I should have listened to you." He breathes deeply, the smile turning sad as he steps toward her.

"Me?" she parrots, making the kind of high-pitched surprised sound that annoys even her.

"You told me he wasn't telling me everything, I didn't listen, I didn't see it..."

He's in her arms before she can really think, her hands stroking his shirt, trying to hold him together with the deftest of touches.

"He'll be okay." She whispers in his ear, voice filled with tears. "You found him and you brought him home. That's what matters."

"Yeah," Peter agrees without conviction, squeezing her tight.

Holding her husband tight, hearing only their combined breathing in the usual silence permeating the house, El certainly hopes she's right.


	8. Chapter 8

_Neal wakes to sunlight, a soft glow filtering through dust and cobwebs. He lies still, blinking his eyes and taking stock. The room is smaller and greyer than he remembers. Shifting he hears the clink of handcuffs before he feels the pain radiating down his arm where its suspended just above his head. Tracking its length, he can see one bracelet closed tight around his wrist, with the other end attached to a metal bar. It takes only a couple of more seconds for his brain to kick into gear and realise he's not lying on the floor, but on a very uncomfortable mattress and the metal bar is actually part of a small bedframe. He's feeling more awake and aware than last time, which he thinks should be a good sign, that is until two large guys appear and pull him up, letting him hang between them limp as a child's plaything._

_He can walk he quickly discovers, when he fumbles his steps as he's dragged across a tiled floor towards a doorway, sans door. The lethargy still making him feel weak but no longer immobile, Neal moves his gaze around trying to take in as much of his surroundings as possible while looking for any opportunity to run. What he finds however as he's ferried down a long clinical corridor with more rooms without doors leading off it, is that not only is he not in the house in Brooklyn, but the oft annoying yet comforting weight around his left ankle is most certainly missing._

_How he came to be somewhere else without remembering scares the crap out of him, he has no idea what time or day it is and he might not even be in the city for all he knows. Fear grips him for a second time when his slow brain picks up on his other issue. With no anklet how is Peter going to find him? Either the bad guys managed to take it off without sounding the alarm or they moved him the second they broke it, effectively evading the FBI and the Marshall's. He knows this because in any other scenario Neal would be waking up on Peter's couch or in a hospital with Peter there at his bedside right now._

_Before he can ponder more on what could have happened to land him in this disconcerting situation, he's pulled through another doorway, pushed down a staircase, one which opens directly into a rear alleyway, and shoved into a waiting limousine. One of his bulky escorts pulls out a pair of long sharp scissors. They cross his eye line and he instinctually flinches, believing wholeheartedly this is where it ends, with him bleeding to death and his body being thrown off the Manhattan bridge. He closes his eyes in anticipation, sure if that's their intention there really is nothing he can do about it._

"_Neal my dear." A hand taps his leg, shocking Neal into opening his eyes. "No need to worry. We are not going to hurt you." An elderly man, in his late seventies if he's a day, is sitting across from him, the scissors held in one stubby hand. "So sorry for the poor hospitality," he leans forward and cuts the cable ties Neal only just now notices were restraining his own hands, "but you know, you've made things a little awkward for my comrades here."_

_Neal stares at him through sleepy eyes and finds his voice. "Who's Neal?" He punctuates with a beaming smile. At least he hopes it's beaming, the effort to lift his cheeks proves just as difficult as his hands and feet._

"_Don't think me a fool." The man's tone quickly hardens. "After we discovered your little piece of jewellery," he points at his foot, "did you really think it would take us long to discover your true identity."_

_Neal has nothing to say to that. He's working very hard to remain upright. "What have you given me?"_

"_Just a taste of what is to come." He says without preamble. "It'll help you. You are a rarity Mr Caffrey, it's not often we have the opportunity to delivery someone …. How should I put this… with your background, shall we say?"_

"_My background?" He questions unthinkingly, "okay, well thanks, but I think it's best we part company now, Peter will be looking for me and he gets really cranky when I'm gone more than a few hours," Neal paws at the door, "so I think it's best for all if I just go." He clips the handle with the tips of his numb fingers a few times, but ultimately fails to make purchase._

"_Not so fast." The elderly gent grins, covering Neal's hand with his own and bringing them back to his lap. "I'm sure Peter would like to enjoy a little more of his weekend with that lovely wife of his." He sits back, enjoying the look of fear on Neal's face far too much. "I know everything there is to know about you Mr Caffrey." He tells him seriously. "I don't know how you slipped passed our security but I assure you, I've made sure it won't happen again."_

_The limousine, which he hadn't even realised had been moving, comes to a halt and the door opens, revealing a guest to their private party._

_Alan._

_Neal's eyes widen but he hasn't the words. One eye swollen, a bruise covering his left cheek Alan DuPont as Neal knows him looks dazed and completely out of it. Nothing like the suave young man who he'd met only days before._

"_Neal say goodbye to Alan." The man orders like the whole affair bores him, cleaning his glasses on his shirt._

_Alan doesn't react. Neal tries to ask him if he's okay, but the second he finds his voice again he's pulled from the car, dragged across an empty underground car park and pushed into what he thinks is a service elevator._

_The window on the limousine winds down halfway and Neal's forcibly turned to face it._

"_Be good now Neal. Remember, fighting will only make it harder on you. I want to hear great things. Don't disappoint me."_

_And with those parting words the limousine pulls off, the elevator doors close and Neal's left staring at his own dull reflection._

In the semi darkness of the Burke's guest bedroom, sheets rumpled and kicked to the bottom of the bed, Neal wakes with a sudden quiet gasp. Greedily taking in oxygen, he lays motionless for a couple of seconds, taking in the very real, very familiar surroundings, not daring to move or blink for fear of who or what may answer.

He thinks of calling out for Peter, needing the reassurance that he is indeed here, safe and the bed he's currently lying on isn't a stained mattress in a dirty grey walled cell without a door, but events of yesterday come back to him in a rush and Neal feels shame heat his face. Weighing up his other choices he attempts to revisit sleep, knowing it must be very early if the lack of sunlight is anything to judge, but the second he closes his eyes fabricated hands burn his skin. Another, stronger memory he's been running away from ever since regaining consciousness in the hospital. Staying awake it is then, but after minutes it proves only to be mildly better. Recalling their earlier conversation, the memory of losing his shit in the loft and being put to bed insists on playing on a loop, making him feel more of a fool than ever. So, in the twilight of what he's sure will be a terrible day no matter what, his thoughts zero in on his last remaining option. Throwing off what little remains of the covers he slips his feet to the cold hard floor and pads lightly out the bedroom and down the stairs, avoiding the creaky floorboard on the second to bottom step. It's still pretty dark out, but that doesn't matter. Street lamps cast enough light through the uncovered glass of the porch to see his suit Jacket hanging next to the front door. Slipping it on over his t-shirt Neal reconciles that the balmy late summer air will compensate for his inappropriate attire. He feels in the pocket for his burner phone, the one Mozzie gave him for emergencies, while searching for his shoes. He finds neither. Disappointed, Neal frowns at the floor where he's certain his loafers should be until the light flicks on above him, freezing him in place.

"Going somewhere?"

It's said casually enough, but Neal hears the accusation in the undertone loud and clear.

"Just a walk. I couldn't sleep." He shrugs, feigning casualness. "Have you seen my shoes?" He asks not daring to look up and face the disapproving glare.

Peter curses his name and Neal tenses listening to the heavy footfalls travel down the stairs.

"Get back to bed," he rounds on him, blocking access to the front door. "Now."

Neal pulls himself to his full height and they stand toe to toe, but with Peter's extra two inches he might as well be a mountain. The man excels at looming, and despite his desperation to escape and process his nightmares alone, Neal is certain this is one fight he will never win. Not without great personal sacrifice, and despite what he told Jones and Peter yesterday, he steadfastly has no desire to relive any of his nightmares with anyone. Accepting he has no other option, not if he doesn't want to land himself back in prison, Neal forcefully removes the jacket, hanging it back up where he found it and with his gaze fixed to the floor, slinks his way up stairs and back to bed.

…

The opening of the guest bedroom door yanks Peter from his semi-sleep state. Gazing at the large green digits of the bedside clock, he lets out a dejected sigh. It's only 01:03am. He's been in bed less than an hour, having spent the latter part of the evening after Jones left worrying over how he was going to let Neal down once he's listened to his account of what happened. Still feeling a natural wave of disappointment in himself for promising something he's already decided not to give he stares into the murkiness of early morning listening intently for further sounds in his house. At 01:08 light feet make their way down the stairs. The lack of a creak on the second to last step signals to Peter the ungrateful whelp he's taken in and accepted as his own isn't just fridge raiding for a midnight snack. Sliding his way out of bed just as stealthily he makes his way across the landing and watches from the top step. He waits, watching Neal look for his shoes and notice the missing phone before making his presence known.

Flicking on the lights he keeps his voice pitched low and menacing, "Going somewhere?"

"Just a walk." Neal responds casually before asking about his shoes, like he's doing nothing wrong.

Peter sighs heavily. He got very little sleep while Neal was undercover, absolutely no sleep once they knew he was missing and now even weeks later, in between Neal's inability to fall asleep without support and his own nightmares, every hour uninterrupted is a precious commodity. He does not need Neal upping the ante with middle of the night escape attempts. Enough is enough.

"Get back to bed," he orders, travelling down the stairs with increased irritation and blocking the front of the door. "_Now_."

Watching Neal deflate in the face of his authority - something he often strives for but in this instance is nowhere near as satisfying as it should be - Peter holds the maelstrom of emotional torment inside, stealing himself with several deep breaths. Peter tails Neal through the bedroom door just in time to watch him tumble gracelessly, flopping face down on the bed with a very audible huff.

"Hey," Peter drops to sit next to him, gripping the back of one exposed calf where his pyjama bottoms have ridden up. "I thought we were on the same page. What's gotten into you?"

Neal slides his cheek across the pillow, peaking up at him though his lashes. "I'm fine. Go to bed."

Peter let's out a frustrated huff. Avoidance. Not the reaction he was hoping for, but not wholly unexpected given he's just caught Neal mid-escape. Undeterred Peter repeats the question, only this time with an edge of authority, the likes of which has been common place in their relationship from the beginning. "_Neal_. Tell me why the hell are you trying to run out on us in the middle of the night."

"I wasn't. I'm fine. You should go back to bed." Neal mumbles, turning his face fully into the pillow.

Landing a palm in the middle of his back and patting gently Peter closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. "Neal," he repeats calmly. "Either tell me what's going on in that infantile mind of yours or I will make good on my promise to put you somewhere you can't just stroll out the door."

Neal doesn't verbally respond, only curls up tighter so his knees are touching his chest. Looking to the ceiling for strength Peter contemplates where to go from here. Nothing good is going to come from a middle of the night interrogation that's for sure. He's learnt that lesson the hard way. Tentatively reaching out again, running his hand over tight shoulders Peter agrees to let it go for now.

"Okay, have it your way." He stands, breaking contact and heading for the door. "Just promise me something."

"I won't run off in the middle of the night." Neal groans petulantly, voice still muffled by the pillow.

"That's all I ask."


	9. Chapter 9

It's 7am. Neal's fully dressed, lying on top of the bed covers in Peter's spare room, staring up at the ceiling. After tossing and turning most of the night, he's procrastinated to his full extent in order to delay the inevitable confrontation waiting for him downstairs. Despite the progress made the prior evening, given that Peter's first instinct is always to think the worst of him, Neal's certain there is no way either Burke will let his almost leaving the house last night go.

"_You could try telling the truth." _Mozzie's voice crackles through the burner phone pressed to ear.

It's his back up. The disappearance of the first is still a mystery, but Neal can guess Peter had something to do with it.

"Sure Moz, I'll just tell Peter, the _FBI Agent_, I was scared by a stupid nightmare."

"_He might understand."_

"And what if I don't want him to?" Neal rolls to the side, jumping up off the bed to pace the floor, "have you thought about that?"

"_Neal" _Mozzie sighs, sounding seconds away from hanging up.

Neal comes to a standstill, poking rough finger tips in his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he drops his hand, blinking rapidly to remove the blur, "it's just, Peter's been really stressed since all this happened and I hate that he thinks he has to look after me."

"_Well, the suit's always trying to smother you. I think he actually enjoys it," _the line goes silent for a few seconds, but Neal doesn't try and fill the gap. _"You know he's just trying to keep you safe."_

"I know." He breathes wearily, dropping back to sit on the bed. "Look I've got to go. I'll call you later."

He hangs up quickly, before Mozzie can ask any more questions, and throws the phone behind him to bounce off the bed, uncaring if Peter finds it or not. Focusing his mind on working out how he can limit any direct contact with either of the Burkes this morning is what's important.

As it turns out, exiting his room without notice proves impossible, the second he steps a toe out the door Satchmo greets him with an excited bark. Wagging his tail at the top of the stairs he acts as escort, leading Neal to his designated place at the dining table, as if he'd been charged with the important task of fetching him and taking him directly to Peter.

"Morning." Peter greets without looking up from the broadsheet open before him.

Neal slips into his customary seat in obedient silence, returning the dry welcome with a small nod and tight smile. Hoping to get through this ritual without being interrogated, he plays the role of grateful houseguest by taking a slice of still warm toast, placing it neatly on his plate without having any intention of eating it.

"Don't waste that," Elizabeth leans over his shoulder, making him jump.

Neal reaches for the blueberry jam, feeling El's steely eyes on him and looks over to see Peter, his paper still open and up right obscuring him from view, a half-empty coffee mug sitting abandoned next to his elbow.

"You're still mad." He decides to give up on his plan for avoidance and be forthright instead, not up to playing his own games this morning, let alone Peter's.

Peter doesn't so much as splutter at being called out, much to his chagrin. Instead he folds the paper neatly, putting it to one side and silently appraises him.

"Neal, you want coffee?" El calls from the kitchen, breaking the silent tension.

Her tone holds a slight edge to it and he wonders if she's mad at him too.

"Please," he leans back and smiles wide at her through the open kitchen door, choosing to pretend as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

When she plops the filled mug in front of him, he's treated to a beaming smile, while Peter on the other hand gets the stink eye. Pleasantly surprised, he concludes it must be Peter she's mad at.

"Stop it." Peter bites when El disappears upstairs.

"What?" He blinks, not even trying to hold back his smug smile.

"You know what." Peter reaches for his own mug of what has to be cold coffee and takes a sip before pulling a disgusted face and pushing it away.

"No, I don't." Neal says airily.

He really doesn't. Whatever Peter's done to gain Elizabeth's wrath this morning Neal's certain he deserves it. Whether she's using him to make Peter jealous or not he doesn't care. El's always been very understanding when it comes to him and his problems, so he owes her his undivided support in this.

Peter tries to glare him into submission. The kind of narrowed eye stare that makes Neal squirm and want to avoid eye contact. "You know this isn't going to work if you keep trying to circumvent me at every turn."

"I wasn't-"

"Ah!" Peter holds up his hand, points his finger - "I'm talking. That means you're listening."

Neal bites his tongue, using the pain to prevent an ill-advised response. Shifting uncomfortably, he schools his expression and gives Peter his best 'I'm listening' face.

"We came to an understanding last night. I made an agreement with you and I intend to stick to it, that is if you do?"

Neal pretends to think on it, looking blankly back at Peter with an agreeing shrug.

El travels quickly back down stairs smelling of jasmine and vanilla, grabbing her handbag from the kitchen table she walks over to stand next to Peter. "Right, I'm going to work, don't kill each other and let me know if you'll be home for dinner. There's a new takeaway place I want to try."

"Takeaway on a Tuesday?" Peter looks at El like she's suddenly declared herself a flat-earther.

"Bye hon." She smiles down at him indulgently, pecking him on the cheek.

Whatever it is that's annoyed her, it's clearly not enough to actually last. Peter returns the 'bye hon', giving her a kiss of his own. Neal watches furtively from the side-lines, putting focus on taking a bite out of his toast still lying untouched on his plate. Whenever he sees the two of them together, he wonders about his own future. Will he ever have someone call him hon and smile at him like he can do no wrong?

He's ruminating so hard on those wishful thoughts he misses Elizabeth's approach, and so the hand gliding through his hair takes him by surprise. It startles him, but not enough for her to notice. Schooling his expression instantly, and calming his breathing, Neal smiles up at her with everything he's got. Gaze following her out he drops his grin drops the second the door shuts behind her and releases a long-held breath. For a moment he forgets he isn't the only one in the room and allows the fear to flow out from where he normally hides it, to show like a painting on his face. Quickly putting himself back together, he turns back to face the table only to find Peter standing at his side.

"You okay, sport?"

It's amazing. Even with such innocent words Peter manages to sound menacing.

"Sport?" Neal frowns up at him, watching cautiously as Peter takes a seat, sitting sideways on the chair to face him.

"Felt like a sport kind of moment." Peter shrugs unapologetically, cutting off any opportunity for a witty retort with a very serious, "We need to talk."

"Didn't we just do that?" Neal leans back, cautious and wary of Peter's motives.

"We did. But not about this."

"What then?" Neal's turn to shrug.

Peter runs his teeth over his lip, a sure sign to Neal whatever 'this' is, he's not going to like it.

"Firstly," he leans forward, elbow to knees, "you just flinched."

"I did?"

"You did."

"I'm not allowed to flinch?"

"You are, but you don't." Peter sighs, sits back with a familiar growl of frustration. "Look, I know you're a tough kid-"

Neal blinks and tilts his head in Peter's direction. "Kid?" First it's 'sport,' now 'kid'? If Peter's trying to infantilise him, he's going the right way about it…

And like a cartoon lightbulb moment, that's when Neal buys a clue.

"Why are you trying to con me Peter?"

He's ashamed it's taken him this long to realise actually. He's better than this.

"Me trying to con _you_?" Peter fakes looking aghast, but he's a terrible liar and gives up thankfully quickly. "Okay, I'm sorry. I want you to talk to me. I want you to know you can talk to me about anything you need to and El said bullying you into talking wasn't fair. I'm trying to be nice, but it you make it very difficult."

"So, it's my fault you struggle to interact like a normal human being." Neal blinks, only just managing to hold in the nervous laughter.

"That's not what I meant," Peter shoots back.

"When are you going to take my statement?" Neal hardens his tone and changes the subject.

"This afternoon, we've got a case we need to work on first."

"I'd rather do it this morning, get it out of he way so we can get back to normal."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you can tell me what you remember and we'll review from there."

"But you agreed if I told you everything then we could!"

"_You agreed_ to share what you know on the previsor I'd consider it." Peter counters.

They clearly know each other too well. No one will win, and continuing playing this game will only end in tears – his most likely.

"Okay, fine." Neal huffs, giving in to the inevitable. "But it's been coming back in bits and pieces. There's a lot I'm not even sure is even real."

He's out of breath, desperation clear in his tone. It's not for nothing. Peter sits back, though one hand rests on the table within easy grabbing range, should Neal decide it's worth making a run for it.

"You need to tell me as much as you know." Peter eyes him seriously.

"And are you?" Neal's raises his eyes hopefully. "Going to really consider it I mean? Not just take what I've got to tell you and say nothing's changed."

Peter doesn't say anything in quick retort. He pauses like he's thinking hard about how to word his response.

Sitting forward that hand inches closer, the tips of Peter's fingers brushing against his own. "We are going to the office. You'll give me your full statement, imagined or otherwise and then you'll work the cases you're assigned," he pauses, takes in and releases a deep breath, "and if I do agree to letting you work field cases again," he says it like it truly pains him, "you will not give me or any other Agent you work with any trouble, clear?"

Neal was nodding obediently right up until he heard 'any other agent'. "Why would I be working with someone else?" He frowns.

"You shouldn't," Peter brushes it off. "But if I assign you to work with Diana again-"

"Diana," Neal breaths an audible sigh of relief.

"Yes, or Jones" Peter breaks, his brow furrowing, "that a problem?"

"No, no," Neal blinks and nervously licks his lips. "You won't make me go back to the van today though, right?"

Peter studies him, Neal can see the almost frantic need to ask why, but thankfully Peter surprises him by showing some restraint. "Okay. No van today."

Neal sits back and smiles, satisfied that hand will not be reaching out for him, dragging him anywhere he doesn't want to go. "Okay then."


	10. Chapter 10

“Why here?” Neal asks the second they step into the bland private room, situated off the same corridor as the interrogation rooms. 

“Why not here?” Peter throws over his shoulder, moving furniture around until he has it set up to his liking

“I guess as long as you don’t expect me to lie down on the couch,” Neal eyes the small settee Peter’s nudged into the corner, “I don’t have a problem with it.”

“I thought we could sit at the table for this one.” Peter smiles softly and pulls out two chairs, side by side.

“What’s this room used for anyway?” He asks, taking the offered seat. “I’ve never been in here.”

“Oh, different things.” Peter mutters, settling next to Neal. “Missing person’s let families wait in here sometimes. Less intrusive, and it’s nowhere near Rice’s office.”

“Yeah, Agent Rice isn’t exactly great at relating to people.”

Peter shifts closer, leans in to Neal’s side. “Speaking of missing person’s-”

“No, nu-uh,” Neal affirms immediately, pushing up and away from the table, reinstating the gap Peter just closed. “I’m not doing this if it means working with Rice again.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Peter reaches out, taking Neal by the arm and guiding him to sit back down. “I was just, you know, wondering if there’s anyone out there who’s missing _you_?”

“Like who?” Neal, posture stiff as a board, eye’s him up and down.

Peter laughs, turning away and making it very difficult for Neal to get a read on what he’s finding so amusing. 

“Well,” he drawls out, smirk evident on his lips. “I was at your trial remember? I knew everyone there and couldn’t help but notice the only one who wasn’t a witness against you-”

“Was Kate.” Neal nods, catching on.

Peter gives him another soft smile. “Even you didn’t spring from a cabbage patch Neal.”

Peter’s often asked him about his parents, his childhood. It’s the only part of his life the FBI have nothing on. That’s because he covered his tracks well, with the added help of the Marshalls of course. There’s no way Peter would ever be able to track Neal Caffrey back to a three-year-old who officially went missing from Washington D.C over twenty years ago.

“Nobody’s looking for me.” he says to give him something. “We ready to do this?”

Peter looks like he wants to push, ask more questions, however the importance of what they came here to do obviously trumps his curiosity on this occasion.

“Sure.” Peter pulls over the little microphone and black box recorder he’d carried in with him. “I’m going to record you like we would any-” his eyes flick up to him, swallowing the word he was going to say, “statement.” Pressing the button, he quickly recites the date and time, adding their names before looking up, over at Neal. “I want you start from the beginning.”

…

After a bit of a rocky start, Neal relates, in pretty good detail, his arrival at the house and everything that happened inside thereafter. By the sounds of it, Neal sustained most of his injuries early on. It’s hard for Peter to hear about Neal being hurt and not react or comment, but he keeps reminding himself what El told him last night. Neal needs him to be calm, he needs him to listen and not judge. Not that he would judge him, not at all, but he gets that he isn’t known for his bedside manner. 

“I tried to escape.” Neal breaths, looking at him, glassy eye as wide as sauces, desperate to be believed.

“I’m sure you did.”

“No really,” he impresses, gaze clouding over, staring at the wall, “but there was too many of them, I made it to the door and if I’d just fought harder-”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter reaches out, taking hold of the kids suddenly failing hands, covering them with his own warm palms and keeping him still. “You tried your best and got the bruises to prove it. It wasn’t your fault Neal.”

Neal stills. 

Turning to stare at Peter he swallows and nods, “okay.”

Peter loosens his grip, lets Neal slide his hands into his lap and sits back. “What happened next?”

“They,” he blinks, eyes roaming the ceiling, and swallows again, “drugged me, for the first time.”

First time. That’s what sticks in Peter mind as Neal relays the rest. He talks about waking up in the attic, being restrained, being stripped and having no way of stopping it. But it’s the information about the unknown man who told the others not to remove the anklet that tweaks Peter’s interest.

“You think he may have been law enforcement?” Peter asks the question, the one he knows Neal’s already thinking.

“I didn’t recognise him, not that I got a good look at any of them really,” his voice shudders, “but yeah, it’s possible. He seemed different to the others.”

“Okay,” Peter goes quiet, his gaze turns inward before snapping out of thought on his own. “And you don’t remember it being taken off?”

Neal pauses, eyes rolling up and to the right. “I remember waking up somewhere else…”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” he shakes his head, closing his eyes.

“Come on Neal.” Peter orders, his voice barely above a whisper. “You can do it. You think you don’t remember but I’m betting it’s all in there,” he reaches out and taps Neal’s head gently.

“Peter?” Neal tenses, eyes screwing shut tighter.

“Anything you can tell me about where they took you will help,” Peter tells him smoothly.

He briefly considers the good of pushing him. Neal trusts him, trusts him not do anything that will hurt him…

“Everything’s,” blue eyes open and look pleadingly over at him, “it’s all fuzzy after that.”

“Neal-”

“I know Peter, I’m trying!”

He was going to say ‘don’t worry’ and move them along, but something about the desperation gives him pause. In front of him Neal’s practically rocking, his hands gripping each other, squeezing as if it’s life or death. 

“Hey,” he breaths softly and taps a knuckle under Neal’s chin, “you’re safe. Whatever it is, I’m not going to be mad at you.”

The quick averting of sad eyes tells Peter his hunch was right. Neal remembers something alright, something despite his promise is still unwilling to share.

Neal takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

…

Neal flashes on the face of the man he cannot draw. The one that haunts his dreams, with his blurry features and oily, skin crawling voice. Neal never met him, not properly. He came and went in the cover of darkness, whether it was actual night or his drug dosed mind Neal can’t be sure. What he does know is that man enjoyed every second of unwanted contact, running his perverted hands over Neal’s cool skin while he cried inside and couldn’t move. He remembers seeing that face hoovering over him, hearing the voice again and again, when he woke up alone in the loft, was left alone in the hospital, even in his safe place of Peter and Elizabeth’s home. Whenever the face reappears Neal tries to hold onto the image, but the features are always distorted, hidden in shadow. His every attempt to document it a failure, to the point he can’t even make a rough impression any more, hence the blank sketch book still adorning Peter’s guest bedroom floor. 

He’d started at the beginning, managing to tell Peter about meeting Alan at the club, all the way up to getting out of the cab that warm Saturday morning and stupidly missing all the signs that this was a very bad idea. The meeting with the plump cigar puffing front man was slightly more difficult to recite, but he got through it. The escape he quickly narrated, covering his breaking out of the restraints and reaction to watching the liquid that was so close to going down his throat burn holes in the floor, followed by his flight down the stairs. He’d have been proud of such a feat, if it had succeeded, which they both already know it didn’t. What happened was he was recaptured, drugged and tied up in the attic where he was stripped and changed into different clothes, if only that was the end to his humiliation. So, when Peter pushes him to remember, to share what’s difficult for him to admit even to himself…

“I know Peter, I’m trying!”

Tears prick his eyes and Neal’s certain he’s seconds away from losing it. He didn’t think it would be this hard. All he wants is to get back to work, for things to be like they were before Ruiz stepped foot in White Collar demanding his assistance and for Peter not to look at him like a victim he has to protect. 

The soft _“Hey,” _has a few of them slipping loose.

Peter tells him he’s safe. It should feel nice. He’s lucky to have someone like Peter in his life, someone that cares about him that way. But somehow, it makes him feel… small. Like a toddler, unable to cater for even his own most basic needs. He’s become so reliant on Peter… for everything. Hell, he can’t fall asleep with Peter being there to keep the monsters at bay. 

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” He wipes his nose with his sleeve, an unconscious move that brings back more uncomfortable memories.

Embarrassment flushes his cheeks and he moves away, intending to leave, only to find his arm restricted by one large hand clamped uncomfortably tight around his wrist. He tugs but it doesn’t loosen.

“Where you going?”

Neal glares at him, “I’m allowed to go to the bathroom.”

“What for?”

Unable to fathom if Peter is being uncharacteristically dense or if he really thinks Neal might get up to no good, he spells it out to him. “I need to freshen up.” 

The assessing look he gets and Peter’s sudden ‘oh’ tells him that yes, Peter can be that dense. Clearly, he’d been too focused on the words, on getting the information that the tears streaming down his cheeks hadn’t registered. Or maybe he thought Neal wouldn’t be so brazen as to point them out? Either way, seems no matter how intertwined their life’s have become, it’s still possible to learn something new about each other after all this time.

Peter does thankfully let him go. He’s back in less than five minutes, but that doesn’t stop him pointedly tapping his watch. 

“You okay to continue?”

It not said coldly, Peter can be intrusive but he’ not callous, however the question has only one answer. “As I’ll ever be.”

He sits tight, hands clasped in his lap to keep himself still and continues sharing his memories of those wretched 48 hours.

…

_Opening his eyes is awkward, they feel gritty and the lids are difficult to separate, like his lashes have been glued together. When Neal finally pries them open, he can see beds lining the wall opposite. People are lying on them, arms held high above their heads. No one’s really moving, but he can hear them, crying out in pain, groaning. Forcing his neck to turn, at this point not questioning why he feels so uncomfortable or why there’s a strain in his own shoulders, he focuses on the only obvious movement. It’s a young girl, and to him it looks like she’s trying to remove a bed sheet while the person occupying it is still on it. _

_Neal opens his mouth, tries to call out to her, ask where he is, for help, but his throat is scratchy and dry. He coughs, forces sound out, but just as he’s close to forming a coherent word-_

_“What the fuck are you doing?” A man, older, dressed in a suit and tie, looking out of place even to Neal in his not quite cognizant state, approaches the girl and grabs her by the neck, “leave it. Go, do something useful.”_

_Neal tries to rise up, help her, help the person she was clearly trying to help but whatever is coursing through his veins, it’s still doing its thing and all the will in the world isn’t going to counteract a chemical reaction this strong. He’s left helpless, having to watch as the man who sent the girl running takes it upon himself to spit on the body lying prone on the next bed. And it was a body he realises. His vision is still too blurry to make out details, but the young man on the bed next to his couldn’t have been more than twenty. He is clearly dead though, and judging by his colour, had been for hours. Vomit covered his mouth, dipping onto the floor. The girl who’d been fighting with the sheet must have been trying to clean him up._

_It’s on seeing the vomit the smell hits his nostrils, like his brain hadn’t connected the dots until he saw it. Something about the smell, coupled with the sight of the body, the screams and groans he can hear... it’s all too much. Neal’s eyes slide shut and he allows his mind to drift off into oblivion. _

“It smelt awful, the whole place. Damp. A bit like that motel you sent me to on my first night out of prison.” Neal screws up his face playfully.

“Others were there?” Peter asks after clearing his throat. He says nothing about ill-timed jokes. “You never mentioned anyone else before.”

The twinkle in his eye disappears instantly. “I didn’t know.” Neal looks dazed, as if he’s only just realised what he’s said, “not until just now… but, I guess it was kind of like…”

“Human trafficking.” Peter sits back with a heavy, worry laden sigh.

Neal blinks rapidly, his breathing picking up speed. “Peter, I burned their safe house with my anklet.”

Peter nods. “But not their holding area.”

They drop into silence. Contemplating where they go from here, Peter takes a second to digest all that he’s heard so far. It’s been three weeks since this happened and the reality is most of the victims Neal saw will either already be dead or have been moved to other locations by now. Trafficking is fast and people are generally moved overnight. These places aren’t set up for long term care, where’s the profit in that? Pushing aside his fresh worries for Neal’s mental state, knowing he may just have made things worse by forcing him to remember something his own mind had sort to protect him from, Peter focuses on the practical matters of what needs to happen next.

“Neal?” He taps the cool hand resting on the table.

“What?” Neal looks up at him, eyes wide and full of fear. 

He sighs heavily, wishing he had more than just words to offer. “It’s going to be okay.”

Neal nods slowly, wiping any hint of emotion off his face and forcing a blank expression. 

“Why would they risk sending you to a place traceable to Benedict once they knew who you were?”

Neal blinks at the sudden change of direction, but as hoped it forces the curious and confident Caffrey to resurface. “Maybe they didn’t know I worked for the FBI?”

Peter nods like he thinks it’s possible, but immediately discounts that with his words. “They knew what the anklet was, they knew it was going to lead someone to you and by extension them.”

“Benedict was a patsy.” They say together.

“Do you remember anything else?”

Neal falls silent.

“Neal?”

“Yeah, some…” Neal swallows again, looking away.

“Tell me.” Peter squeezes his arm.

Neal drops his head, takes a deep breath and looks up again. “It’s just my dreams.”

It takes a second but the penny finally drops. “That’s why you tried to leave last night. You have a nightmare?”

Neal nods silently, turning away and closing his eyes.

“And the van?” It’s a guess, but the sniff and steadying breath that follows tell Peter he’s hit the nail on the head.

Leaning closer, he presses his hand against that soft head of hair in the same way he did back at the Howser clinic.

“What happened in that loft, Neal?”

….

Peter reaches over and shuts the tape off just as Neal starts describing his unknown assailant, a precursor to waking up half naked and alone on that stained mattress. Jones and Diana don’t need to know the gritty details. Neal already confirmed the sexual assault earlier on in the tape. 

“Jesus,” Diana murmurs. “Kinda feel bad for calling him a brat now.”

Peter smiles softly at the normalcy, “well, don’t feel too bad, Neal’s still Neal and he knows how to provoke the reactions he wants.”

Jones keeps his expression neutral. “Where is he now?”

“I sent him to records with Lucy the new intern. She’s on rotation with us for a week during her training, hasn’t any idea what happened and will be an easy target for Neal’s charm.” Basically, Neal will have the time to build up his façade and the intern will learn a valuable lesson on the importance of staying vigilant no matter what. It’s a win/win. “At the case debriefing this afternoon I’ll assign him something simple, see how he gets on.”

“You’re letting him back to work active cases?” Diana asks, mouth hanging open.

Peter silently considers the question. “I made Neal a promise and intend to keep it.”

“You’re really going to be okay letting him back into the field?” Jones asks speculatively.

“Neal’s statement will be passed to Ruiz. If Benedict was set up then Violent Crimes is based placed to follow up. Plus, Human trafficking is their remit not ours. Hughes is ironing out the details with their ASAC right now.” He’s avoided answering the real, because the truth is, he’s scared, and that fear must show clearly otherwise Jones wouldn’t be asking him that. “We watch each other’s backs. Same as always.”

“What about the guy that may or may not be in law enforcement? And what about Seattle?”

Peter nods, showing Diana he’s taking both issues on board. “I’m not comfortable with it, but Hughes has made it clear this is not our case.” His contact in Seattle had brought to his attention a similar murder to Alan DuPont’s having occurred there several months prior. “I’ve agreed to stay out of it from now on. Anyway, my priority should be Neal.” Turning to address Jones, he says “I want the name of the lead Agent down in Quantico… make sure he knows who I am. If they get any information, think there’s even a chance Neal may be in danger, I want to know about it.”

“You want me to share Neal’s statement with them too?” 

Peter nods. “Neal knows, he didn’t want to be here, but he knows this is on record. We need to stay vigilant. Neal is going to stay vigilant. But I realise it’s high time things got back to normal.”

“Whatever we can do to Boss, let us know.” 

Diana stands and leaves the room, Jones hangs back.

“You okay?” Peter looks up from gathering his things, planning on heading down to records if Neal doesn’t reappear soon.

“I was going to ask you the same.” Jones stands to attention, a pose he often takes when speaking his mind.

“I’m fine.” Peter nods tightly. “It needed to be done.”

“Yeah, but you could have gotten any agent to do it. Violent Crimes isn’t full of Ruiz’s and they are trained a little better to support this type of victim.”

“I know.” Peter sighs outs, running a hand over his eyes into his hair. “But Neal needed it to be me.” 

Neal wouldn’t have shared anything with someone he didn’t trust, and for whatever reason Peter’s still yet to work out, even after all this time, Neal has always, always trusted Peter. Obviously, timing had something to do with it, a young twenty-something Neal Caffrey was running around causing mayhem and crying out for an authority figure. Someone to notice him, someone to care enough about what happens to him to want to teach him right from wrong. In steps Peter, old enough to recognise a lost and lonely kid when he sees one, and wanting nothing more than to help. Why Neal took such an instant liking to him is the mystery still to be solved, but he did and the result was the phone calls and postcards and teasing gifts. Anything to keep him interested. None of it necessary. Being Neal’s guardian is a burden on his own wellbeing most days, and not something he signed up for, but despite his job and Neal’s penchant for criminality, hand on heart Peter grew to love the kid and wouldn’t change a damn thing. He suddenly wonders if he’s ever told Neal that?

“Yoo-hoo!” A hand waves in front of his face. “Earth to Peter.”

Peter blinks, “Neal?”

“Wow, you were deep in thought.” He swings the chairs around and drops into it, spinning back to face the desk. “What’s got you so distracted?”

Peter narrows his gaze and assesses the cheeky grin. “You.” He mock growls, “as always.”

The grin gets impossibly wider. “Lunch?”

Peter pretends to think on that. “Lunch would be good. I know just the place.”


	11. Chapter 11

“Okay.” 

Peter stares at Neal sitting across from him, his desk between them.

“Okay.” 

Neal’s back is straight as a ruler in his chair, hands resting still in his lap, looking like butter wouldn’t melt and smiling like this morning never happened. 

They’ve had an uneventful day at the office in all, thankfully. Went for lunch at one of their usual places and made it back in good time to catch up on emails. Neal’s even behaved and left him alone long enough to get all the accompanying paperwork for his statement signed off and sent to Ruiz. Hey might even leave on time for once. This should all make him one very happy FBI agent.

Except one thing.

That smile. 

He’d like to think the smile being aimed his way is genuine, that Neal really is feeling better since and is more than ready to move back onto active field work. But despite all that’s happened in-between, he can’t get that finch he saw this morning, when El said goodbye, out of his head. It was a simple gesture, one his wife has done several times before, a bit of a habit since Neal’s been living with them. A kiss for him and a hair stroke for Neal. Only this morning Neal’s eyes had glassed over and he jumped like he’d been burned. It was so subtle El didn’t notice, she ran her fingers through his hair like she normally would, causing his fringe to fall into his eyes. Neal put on a smile like he often does when trying to hide something, so she knew nothing different. But the fear he saw once El left, that was genuine. Neal had been terrified and looked for all the world like he wanted to bolt. 

Peter’s mind draws swift conclusions and suddenly he isn’t so sure about keeping his end of the deal. There’s still a lot to work through, but then if he delays there’s a good chance the trust Neal has in him will weaken and break. 

He needs a better plan. 

Holding the cocksure gaze currently staring at him across the desk, it reminds him of why Neal is here and he promises himself he’ll revisit this dilemma later. 

“Okay,” Peter sits forward, resting his elbows on the desk and raising his hand, a single finger pointed upwards. “Rule number one.”

Neal rolls his eyes, dropping the smile and his shoulders. “Really?”

“_Rule number one,_” Peter repeats, refusing to be distracted. “You follow my instructions at all times.”

“That’s always been rule number one.” Neal slouches, hands dropping to hang uselessly by his side.

“And yet you have an awful habit of not following it.” He has the grace to look contrite and Peter smiles in victory. “Rule number two.” He holds up two fingers now. “No complaining about case allocation.”

“Do I ever complain?”

Peter internally laughs at that, but he can be as good as Neal and not a hint of amusement shows on his face. “Rule number three,” a third finger joins the current two and Peter really has to work at maintaining his tight-lipped expression when Neal audibly whines and drops lower in the chair, “you will not go anywhere on your own, without permission.”

That makes Neal sit up.

“Ah!” Peter holds up a palm front of Neal’s face. “No.”

Collapsing back in his seat his posture is tense and one leg starts to bounce up and down. “Peter, how is this any different from how it is now?”

“You’ll be back on active cases, working in the field with me.” He shrugs, “what’s the difference to how it’s always been with the anklet?”

“Exactly.”

“What?”

“It isn’t any different from how it’s always been.” Neal stands, paces to the corner of the room and stays there, running a hand over his face.

“I told you everything that happened,” he’s voice cracks slightly.

Peter wants nothing more than to move over there, take Neal in his arms and squeeze the fear and the worry right out of him. “You did, and I appreciate it.” 

“So,” Neal starts to pace again, over to the window and back, “what was the point?” He throws both hands in the air, turning to face him.

“The point,” Peter stands and slowly approaches, “is we all have to work by the rules. Just like we all do paperwork and some cases mean desk work. That’s the nature of White Collar,” 

“But you promised-” Neal stamps his feet, looking seconds away from a very rare, but not unheard-of, full-blown tantrum.

“Ah!” Peter warns, closing the small gap between them and taking Neal by his arm’s, moving them closer to the wall dividing his office from the conference room, restricting the view of anyone in the bullpen. “I promised not to treat you any differently and I plan to stick to that,” Peter tells him calmly.

Neal shuffles his feet, keeping his head down, he raises his eyes to look at Peter through his eyelashes and speaks his next words shyly. “So, you’re going to shout at me and threaten me with prison if I step out of line or piss you off?”

Seeing the slight upturn of his lips Peter heaves a relieved sigh, raising his own gaze up at the ceiling to regroup he releases one arm and pats the kid’s shoulder before walking back to sit behind his desk. “Don’t piss me off,” he says, indicating the door, “and I won’t need to threaten you with prison.” 

Prison would never be a reality for Neal again, not if he had anything to do about it. Peter knows he wouldn’t be able to live with it. Especially after all this. But it’s important Neal doesn’t know that, or at least can’t be sure, for both their sakes.

Neal doesn’t move straight away, but he does sneak a glance into the bullpen to see who might be looking. “Fine.”

“Is that the only word I’m going to get from you today?” Peter groans, not at all bothered if they’re attracting attention. 

“I feel it’s safest.” Neal shoots back, voice strong.

“Don’t get cocky.” 

“That rule number four?” Neal smirks as he strolls towards the exit.

Obviously, he’s deemed the coast to be clear…

“Neal?” Peter calls him back as he takes a step out the door.

He’s intending to say something equally cocky, just to have the last word, and remind the kid who’s in charge, but then the unthinkable happens-

“Sorry,” Neal mumbles automatically, eyes downcast.

There’s a red light, right there. Neal never apologies. For being a pain or otherwise. He smiles and pretends he doesn’t care, all the while thinking he’s cute. Which most of the time he is and Peter lets him get away with it. This contrite and humble Neal who is someone Peter does not want to get used to. And like a slap in the face, that bad feeling he had about the flinch he witnessed this morning comes rushing back. 

Standing once again and moving around his desk, Peter beckons him back over. “I was going to say,” he reaches behind him, grabbing a file folder, “read through this, catch up on the pertinents, we leave straight after case de-briefing.”

“Jersey?” Neal comments, skimming the first page.

Peter watches him study the folder. It wasn’t what he was going to say at all, but when Neal did as he asked and looked up at him with wide beseeching eyes, he knew now was not the time. It’s baby steps still. This is just another hurdle in their 1000-yard sprint. 

“Go,” Peter nudges his chin at the door. “We need to get to Jersey and back by six if we’re going to be home in time to order from that new place El wants to try.”

Neal cocks his head, tearing his gaze away from the pages long enough to give him another flash of that cheeky grin. “Takeaway on a Tuesday, Peter? You rebel.”

And with that he’s down the stairs, sauntering lightly towards his own desk. Peter watches him go with an uneasy smile. He’s a rebel alright. He just hopes his rebellion pays off. For all their sakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, folks! Thanks bunches for reading and to everyone who left kudos - always the best :) I'll try and respond to any comments, love those too btw, very muchly.   
Hope you all rejoin me for part 3.


End file.
